


Dive

by FinAmour



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Anal Sex, BAMF John Watson, Bisexual John Watson, Blow Jobs, Body Shots, Boys Kissing Boys, Car Sex, Case Fic, Coming Untouched, Dirty Talk, Elements of fantasy, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Lovers, F/F, Female characters kicking ass, Finger Sucking, Fix-It, Found Family, Friends With Benefits, Frottage, Girls Kissing Girls, Idiots in Love, John is a sad pining boi, Lesbian Sex, Love Confessions, Love Letters, M/M, Molly Hooper saves the universe, Multi, Multiple Orgasms, Mutual Pining, Mysterious disappearances, Oral Sex, Pansexual Character, Passionate Sex, Past Lives, Pining, Pining John Watson, Pining Sherlock Holmes, Plot Twists, Polyamorous Character, Porn With Plot, Protective Sherlock Holmes, Really this story fixes everything, References to Canon, Reichenbach Reimagined, Rimming, Rough Kissing, Rough Sex, SOUL FRICKIN MATES, Semi-Public Sex, Sex, Sex in lots of different places and lots of different eras, Sexual Tension, So much pining it’s basically a forest, Soulmates, Suspense, Top John Watson, Top Sherlock, Wall Sex, Wet Dream, soft bois
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2020-06-13
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:02:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 65,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21624976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FinAmour/pseuds/FinAmour
Summary: It’s John’s third year of studying abroad at Harvard, and he’s still struggling to fit in. On a cold night in December, he finds his girlfriend with another man—and meets a tall, gorgeous bartender with horrible manners that he can’t stop thinking about.Just as John falls for him, swiftly, deeply, and unexpectedly, the bartender disappears, and the bar unexpectedly shuts down.Unexplained occurrences begin to happen to John and his friends, and he slowly discovers the truth about the one he loves. Will he find him in time to tell him how he feels, and more importantly—can he keep him safe?
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 344
Kudos: 536
Collections: Supernova Smut from Various Fandoms





	1. Old Fashioned

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Marina_Sheen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marina_Sheen/gifts).



This isn’t where John wants to be. 

He was hoping for a snog and a stiff drink, but all he’s got to show for tonight is a text from Sarah—cancelling their date—and forty less dollars in his pocket.

So he steps out of the pub at midnight; hands deep in the pockets of his puffy coat, tongue pasty from the bitter taste of his cocktail. Three years in Boston, and he’s yet to find a bartender who makes a proper Old Fashioned. 

The streets of Back Bay are adorned with snow and brightly-coloured holiday lights. Sports fans wander in baseball caps; couples walk hand-in-hand over the riverwalk; students sip on hot drinks in the cafe. Twenty-somethings line up around the block, breathing thick clouds of frost as they wait to enter this week’s trendy club. 

Harry always teases him for being a homebody. Says he ought to stop studying so much and go out once in a while to enjoy American nightlife. But tonight, he’s far too sober for the crowds and the biting temperatures.

He makes towards the train station so he can return home to his tiny flat and his medical textbooks. As he turns a corner, he notices a neon blue sign tucked into the back of an alleyway: _The Strand._ He pauses; this must be the new place his classmates have been raving about. Apparently, they make fantastic drinks—and damned if he isn’t still yearning for that Old Fashioned.

Was it Einstein who said that the definition of insanity is trying the same thing over and over and hoping for different results? John stares at the entryway for a few seconds, thinking about his warm bed. Ultimately choosing to risk madness, he walks into the bar.

***

It’s as though he’s ventured into a 1920s speakeasy—dimly lit with red and white lights, the faint smell of whisky, leather, and cigars. People at dark wooden tables sip overpriced cocktails as jazz music plays from a piano in the corner. He takes a seat at the bar, and that’s when he sees her:

His girlfriend, Sarah, in a booth near the opposite side. A man wearing an expensive suit has his arm around her shoulder. She laughs as he whispers something into her ear. John briefly doubts his own senses; but even in the dark, he’s certain it’s her. And he can’t look away, though he wants to—especially when her eyes fall closed and the man brushes his lips against her neck. 

That’s when a voice—dark and smooth, with a posh London accent—draws John’s attention back to his surroundings.

“Were you planning on ordering, or did you choose to sit here because it makes your voyeurism more convenient?” 

“Sorry,” John mumbles, finally shifting his eyes away from Sarah. “I’ll have an O-ooooh my god.”

Pale, crystalline eyes peer impatiently from behind the bar. Low light flickers over high cheekbones like fire from an open flame; a crown of soft black curls frames a long, slender face. The bartender—he’s the most beautiful man John has ever seen. He leans onto his elbows, eyes burning into John as they slowly pore over his body. 

“What’s your name?” he asks.

“S-sorry?” John sputters. “Oh. Name’s John. What’s yours?”

“Mmm.” The man’s gaze returns to his. The music grows louder, so he wraps his long fingers around the back of John’s neck, moving closer until they’re cheek to cheek. 

“You can call me William,” he purrs into his ear. 

“William.” The word comes as a gust of air from John’s chest, rustling black curls as the man brushes his fingers to the nape of John’s neck. 

“Is this your first time at the Strand, John?” 

“Y-Yes.” John audibly swallows, savoring the musky scent of cologne. His skin tingles at the way William murmurs his name—the way his long, delicate fingers wander beneath his jawline. Closing his eyes, he melts into William’s touch. 

“Alright.” The man draws playful circles with his thumb near John’s pulse point. “Then I will simply inform you that you’re in the best seat at the bar, having ordered nothing. And the longer you sit here without ordering, the more of my time you waste. So if you could order immediately, it would be quite convenient. Otherwise, I must request you take your little peep show elsewhere.” He exhales a final breath on John’s neck before pushing himself away.

John’s eyes fly open at the sudden absence of William’s warmth. He’s not entirely sure what’s just happened; all he knows is that he’s insanely aroused—and insanely confused. He frowns at William, who simply looks back at him expectantly.

“Are you seriously asking me to piss off?” John asks, laughing uncomfortably. 

“I’m asking you to order a drink,” William responds matter-of-factly. “Where you choose to go with said drink is of no interest to me.”

John slides his tongue over his bottom lip, battling the urge to tell the man off. What he can’t fight, however, is his own gaze as it wanders down William’s body, settling on the white, pristine dress shirt he wears. It’s so tight, it doesn’t fully button; perfectly form-fitting over the man’s lithe torso, hugging the curves of his chest and complementing the ivory skin of his neck. The bartender may be a dick, but John supposes it doesn’t matter as long as he can make drinks.

”Do you know how to make an Old Fashioned?” he asks, leaning over the bar. “Bourbon, a splash of water—“

“On the rocks. Bitters, sugar, orange peel garnish. Why wouldn’t I?” William pulls out a glass and begins skilfully mixing the ingredients. 

John rests back in his seat, watching his craft. “You’d be surprised. Most bartenders around here don’t have any idea.”

Acknowledging him with a twist of his upper lip, William places an orange peel on the rim of the drink and slides it over the bar. “Well, John. Most bartenders aren’t me.”

As William speaks, John’s treacherous gaze is drawn to his mouth; it can’t be helped. That mouth is fucking divine: a perfect Cupid’s bow, dipping like candle wax into dusky bee-stung lips.

“Taste it,” William says.

It takes a full three seconds before it registers with John that he’s referring to the drink. But William has already turned his attention to an attractive raven-haired woman who dons a leather corset and scarlet-stained lips. John feels—something. Something fierce. Annoyance? Desire? He’s not going to figure it out—not tonight.

Tonight is not a night to face feelings.

The universe proves otherwise, however. He catches Sarah from the corner of his eye as she and her date leave the bar. Her arms are wrapped around his waist; she’s wrapped protectively in his coat. 

John briefly considers jumping from his seat to go after them, but decides it’s not worth the effort. He doesn’t see the point in chasing a person who’s already caught someone else. What other things has she lied about? Who is this bloke, and how long has this been going on? And what now? Should he ask for an explanation, or should he just break up with her? 

He slumps down in his seat and takes a sip of his Old Fashioned. Shit, it’s good. Really, really good. 

Scrolling through his phone as he drinks, he opens the last text Sarah sent: 

_Hey, sweets. Afraid I’ve got to cancel tonight. Got a bit of a stomach bug. Call you soon xoxo_

He deletes it. He opens his photo album and goes through picture after picture of Sarah. Delete. Pictures of the two of them together. Delete, delete, delete.

Glancing up briefly from his phone, he notices William looking over, hands on his hips, tapping his foot impatiently. He wants John to leave. But John is nothing if not stubborn, and he doesn’t have the capacity for any more bullshit tonight. So he lifts his glass from the bar and points to it. “I’ll have another one, please.”

William strolls towards him, pursing his lips in annoyance. “I’m afraid that’s impossible. We’re closing soon.” 

“You’re not.” John wraps his fingers around William’s thin wrist, turning it to read his watch. “You have to continue serving drinks for at least fifteen more minutes.” 

William pulls his arm away. “I don’t have to do anything.”

“Yeah?” John slides his glass over. “What would the manager say? Can I speak to them?”

“You already are.” William takes a ticket from his billfold and slaps it onto the counter. “How will you be paying?”

John looks down at it. “What do I owe?”

“Eighteen dollars, please.”

John scoffs. “Is that just for the drink, or are you running a tab on seductive ear-whispering and arsehole comments?”

William’s mouth forms into a crooked grin. “No. That part’s always free.” He leans towards John again, pinning him with his crystalline eyes. “Worth it, don’t you think?”

John opens his wallet and places twenty-five dollars onto the table. “The drink was fantastic, I’ll give you that. But not quite enough for me to overlook the shitty service.” He stands, collecting his scarf and coat from the seat next to him. 

A moment of silence; a surge of palpable tension in the air. 

“John.” There’s something in William’s voice begging him to stay. Push. Pull. Push. Pull.

John hesitates. “Yes?”

“Am I correct in presuming that...woman is your girlfriend?”

John continues to fasten his coat. “Don’t think that’s any of your concern, mate.”

“You’ve only just figured it out, then?” 

John’s pauses again. “Figured what out?” Sensing that William knows much more than he does about Sarah’s rendezvous, he braces himself for the answer.

“They’ve been coming here together for quite some time, you know. Same spot—a standing reservation on Thursdays at 7:30. Though I often see them here on weekends as well.”

John’s heart is in his stomach, but he feels a tick of relief. “Did you say Thursdays at 7:30? Can’t be her—she’s got an anatomy lecture at that time.”

“Mm, of course she does.” William bites his bottom lip playfully. “And judging by what I’ve observed in that booth, she’s taking the advanced course.” With that, he inhales a gust of air and tosses a towel over his shoulder. “Anyway. Goodbye.”

John’s mouth falls open involuntarily. He thinks he might punch William in the face. Or maybe not. Maybe his face is too pretty for that. Maybe he’ll go for the chest. Or maybe he’ll kiss the hell out of those plump, intoxicating lips of his, just to shut him up. But he does none of those things. Instead, he watches silently as William disregards him, and the beautiful raven-haired woman takes him by the arm.

John makes his way out, vowing never to return to The Strand again. Which is truly a shame. Because Christ, William does make an excellent Old Fashioned. 

***

The following morning, John sends Sarah a simple text saying that he thinks they want different things, and that they should end it. She thanks him for his honesty (which John finds laughable) and wishes him the best. 

Over the following days, William crosses John’s mind more than he would like—inevitably stirring up a confusing mixture of rage and pining. Ugh. He hates everything about him, but he can’t shake him off. So he convinces himself that it’s not worth dwelling over, because there’s no way he’s getting involved with someone who sends such mixed signals. He’s done with that.

And he’s never going back to the Strand.

Until that weekend, when Stamford invites him to join for drinks on his birthday. He’s set on going to the Strand, and John is conflicted when he doesn’t make an effort to convince Stamford otherwise. He can’t say no, anyway. Stamford’s been his best mate since his first year of uni. Perhaps they’ll get lucky, and William won’t be there. Or maybe he’ll be there, but he’ll be less of a knob. Either way, John’s confident that he can handle one rude bartender. 

Until he walks into The Strand the night of Stamford’s birthday—and sees William, bent over the bar, wearing a white cotton shirt and dark jeans that perfectly display the curves of his beautiful arse. 

He hates William, and he hates his perfect, beautiful arse.

Stamford nudges him lightly. “Gonna stop off at the loo. Then I’ll find a seat for us.”

John nods. “Crown and coke?”

Stamford grins. “You got it.” 

John forces a smile, though he actually feels quite nauseous. He searches for someone—anyone—to take their order who isn’t William. But no such luck. So he inhales a breath of determination and walks right to the bar where William stands. The man’s gorgeous eyes flit to him and quickly away. He combs his gorgeous fingers through his gorgeous hair and turns, darting to the opposite end of the bar. He doesn’t give John a word or a second glance. 

But John has some damned drinks to order—so he waits patiently as William serves the next person in line. He waits patiently as he moves on to the next person, and the next, and the next. 

After about five minutes of William blatantly ignoring him, he finally gives into his vexation. “Oi!” He calls out. “I’ve been waiting for—”

William holds up a hand to silence him, proceeding to take a customer’s order—and walks off again to make their drink. 

John clenches his jaw, sighs, and continues waiting patiently and helplessly until every other customer has been served. Finally. But rather than returning, William crouches behind the bar to retrieve a black wool coat and a pack of cigarettes.

“Nope.” John grumbles, promptly walking over and blocking William from exiting the bar. “Where the hell are you going?” 

William acknowledges him with his characteristic aloofness, an unlit cigarette dangling from his dumb gorgeous mouth. “Sorry, sir. The bar is closed. I’m going on a cigarette break.”

“William.” John firmly grabs the collar of the man’s fancy, pretentious coat, pulling him in until their faces are centimeters apart.

William’s mouth drops and his cigarette falls to the floor. “Have we met?” he asks, peering into his eyes with obvious defiance. 

John quickly collects himself, letting go of William’s collar. “Doesn’t matter. Just...look, this isn’t about me, alright? It’s my friend’s birthday, and I’d like to buy him a drink or two. So could you just get over this...whatever it is...and make a bloody Crown and Coke? And an Old Fashioned for me, if it’s not terribly inconvenient of me to ask that you do your job?”

William’s face lights up and he clasps his hands together. “Yes! I remember you now. You’re the small, angry voyeur who likes to yell.”

As John breathes steadily to stifle his reapproaching rage, a voice calls out to him. 

“John!” 

He looks up to find Stamford waving from a booth across the room, accompanied by two pretty women John doesn’t recognize. John shrugs apologetically and turns back to William—just as another customer approaches the bar.

“Hiiii!” William beams widely at them. “What can I get for you?” 

“Fucking hell,” John mutters. He looks back at Stamford and motions for him to come over. Stamford nods, says something to the ladies, and comes to join him.

“What do you think, eh?” Stamford waggles his eyebrows over his spectacles as he gestures towards the women at the booth. “Their names are Marci and Elizabeth. Met them at the pool table. Told ‘em it was my birthday, and they asked if they could join us.”

“Yes, good.” John glances up at them briefly. They wave, and he politely nods. His head is too foggy with anger towards the tosser behind the bar to pay them any mind. “I apologise, Mike, but the bartender refuses to serve me.” He removes his bank card from his wallet. “This round is on me—but perhaps you’ll have better luck with him.”

Stamford looks at the card, and then he looks over to William. “That bloke? The one who walked directly off the catwalk and into his evening job?”

John pats him on the back, passes over his card, and leaves him to fend for himself. “Yep. That’s the one. Cheers.” 

***

Once John joins the table, he receives a warm welcome from Marci and Elizabeth, two American students studying accounting at UMass Boston. Marci takes a liking to him immediately; she pats the seat next to her in invitation, and John accepts, sliding in beside her. 

It isn’t even two full minutes before Stamford returns with a tray full of drinks. As he sets it onto the table, the girls oooh and aaaah with appreciation.

He grins widely. "That’s the fastest I’ve ever gotten drinks from the bar! And they’re on the house! Except for yours, John. William said something about you insisting on buying.” 

“Wow. Could not have predicted that one,” John scoffs, clenching his jaw to keep from bemoaning William’s insolence. 

The women look over to the bar, waving and smiling, and William gives them a flirtatious wink in return.

"Holy cheekbones," Elizabeth remarks. "What a stunner. Don’t think he’s into women, but if he was, I’d crawl beneath that bar so fast—“

“Liz!” Marci kicks her under the table. “Keep it in your pants. We've only just met these two!” 

John gulps down his (hatefully exquisite) drink. He’s feeling things again. Many things. Mostly profound irritation. His heart beats fast as his helpless gaze wanders to the bar. William, with a cigarette and a ghost of a smile at his lips, gracefully wraps his scarf around his neck and walks out back. 

***

The next part of John’s night is surprisingly pleasant. As the drinks keep coming, the four of them laugh for what feels like hours. Elizabeth and Stamford seem to be hitting it off, and he truly enjoys Marci’s company as well. 

A slow song begins to play, and his two friends move to the dance floor. As they sway together, lost in their own world, Marci places a hand on his thigh. 

“You’re cute, John.” She brushes a quick kiss over his cheek. “I kinda like you.” 

John smiles. He's glad he met her. She's pretty, and nice, and her laugh is quite addictive; he finds himself wanting to do what he can to hear more of it.

That’s why it’s an absolute tragedy that he’s thinking about William. He’s got a strong sensation that the bartender’s eyes are on them, and have been for most of the night—though he’s somehow refrained from checking for confirmation. 

But at this particular moment, Marci’s head on his shoulder, and he’s feeling a little bit smug, and he finds himself needing to know for sure. His eyes dart to the bar, meeting William’s— just as he predicted—but the other man lowers his gaze immediately.

John doesn’t understand what’s going on, but he finally feels as though he’s taken the lead in their absurd little game. His smugness moves up a notch. He takes Marci's hand, squeezes it, and whispers into her ear. 

“Should we get out of here?" 

She places another soft kiss on his cheek. "Yeah. I’d love that."

“Good.” He lifts her hand to his mouth to kiss the back of her palm, and she hums with happiness. “I’ll visit the loo and then order an Uber for us.”

Marci dissolves into a fit of giggles, taking John’s face into her hand and peering into his eyes. “Say it again."

“What. Uber?"

"No. The other one," she says playfully.

"Loo?"

She laughs again—and it’s radiant. “That’s the one. Alright, cutie. I'll wait here. See you in a few.” 

John’s on top of the world. He’s got William’s attention—not that he cares, of course—and he’s about to take a pretty girl home. 

The night is turning out much better than he planned—until he rises from his seat and finds himself cornered by a tall, handsome bartender.

“William?” he gasps. “Jesus. You startled me.” He looks downwards. "You brought a—"

"Sit down, John.” William grins. “It's time for cake."

“Oh?” The fucking audacity this man has. “So you do remember my name, then?"

"Of course I do. I have an outstanding memory.”

“Hm. Right. How lovely for you,” John responds curtly. “Actually, we’re just heading out, so—“

“Oh. Pity.” William pushes past him, pressing his hipbones into his side as he sets the cake onto the table. “Off to meet your girlfriend, then?”

“N-no!” John stammers. His face grows hot as he shoots a glance at Marci, who looks back at him expectantly. 

“I don’t have a girlfriend. I mean, I did. But we broke up. I’m sorry, Marci, I should have mentioned—“

“I seriously don’t care, dude.” She shrugs. “Let's stay for some cake. It won’t hurt.” 

John looks back to William—whose eyes roam over Marci’s body. Not in a predatory manner; he simply appears to be observing her. He then studies the four daiquiri glasses at the table: three empty ones, and another that's almost entirely full. 

"Perhaps you should pass on the cake, Marci,” William suggests. “Judging by the fit of your jeans, you’ve put on ten pounds this semester alone. Come to think of it, you’ve been nursing the same drink all evening—oh!” He claps his hands excitedly. “John must be taking you to the pharmacy to pick up a home pregnancy test!”

John’s eyes go wide with shock, and Marci’s expression grows horrified. Scowling, she rises from the table. "John! Say something!”

John shouldn't be surprised—he's familiar with William's impertinence, though he sort of assumed it was reserved for him. 

He makes a valiant effort to diffuse the situation. 

"I, erm...I mean, I think the...tight jeans look great on you. Although—did you want me to get you a home pregnancy test? Because I can, if you need one."

Marci screams in disgust, swiping her hand over the table and knocking her daiquiri into the air. It flies outwards, covering John's shirt with bright red juice.

She marches over to Elizabeth and takes her by the arm. As she drags her away, Elizabeth appears confused—but doesn’t protest. She turns back to Stamford and blows him a kiss. "I'll call you!" she mouths, and the two of them are gone.

John’s head spins. His neck is hot. His anger is mounting. He looks down at the stains on his shirt, and then back up at William, who regards him unapologetically.

"Cake?" he offers.

“What the hell's the matter with you?" John growls, slamming his fist onto the table. 

William opens his mouth to speak, but John cuts him off. 

“I’m not done talking, William.” John drops his arms to his sides. “You know what? Actually, I get it. You think just because you’re charming, you can go through life walking over everyone else, and they’ll simply line up to be stepped on.”

William purses his lips together, lowering his head.

“Well, your actions do affect others. I mean, Marci’s personal life is not yours to comment on. Come to think of it, neither is mine. And you ruined her night, and you ruined my best friend’s birthday. So you may be the most bloody gorgeous man in the room, but it doesn’t matter. Because you’re a very mean person—and in my book, that makes you ugly."

He doesn’t stop to breathe until he notes the befallen look on William's face. He sighs, continuing a tad less harshly. 

"Perhaps you’ll eventually learn that your charisma can’t solve all of your problems. But right now, to be quite honest, I’m tempted to shove this plate of cake in your face. And if it weren’t Mike’s birthday, I probably would. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to wash the cocktail off my shirt.” 

John doesn’t wait for a reaction—he storms off to the restroom, swings open the door, and pulls his shirt off over his head. Still fuming, he leans over the sink, pulls a handful of towels from the dispenser, and begins scrubbing angrily at the stain on his shirt. 

His head is throbbing. He’s sober, and he’s cold and shirtless in a dark restroom, and he just wants this night to end. 

The door opens, and William steps inside.

“Fuck’s sake,” John grumbles. “Have you come up with yet another plan to ruin the evening? What the hell do you want from me?”

William shuts the door behind himself quietly. “I’m not entirely sure yet.”

John stops scrubbing. He decides his effort to remove the stain is pointless, so he tosses his shirt on the sink and spins to face William. 

His heart skips a beat. He’s immediately astonished by how unguarded William seems to have become. His aloofness has been overtaken by melancholy; his face twists with regret.

"John—“ he says softly. 

John exhales with—something. It feels a bit like defeat. "What, William?"

And suddenly, William’s body is crowded against his. He towers over him, peers down at him; his racing exhalations hot on John's neck. 

John's breath hitches. "What are you—?”

His words are cut off by the other man’s lips devouring his, open and wet and desperate. A stifled groan escapes John's throat as he presses closer, his thin cotton shirt rough against John's bare chest. Shifting his leg between John's, he lifts his arms above his head, pinning him to the wall, sliding his tongue hungrily over the insides of John’s mouth. 

The air rushes out of John’s lungs as he hits the wall with a thud. He’s never felt so powerless in his life—but he wants this. God, he wants this. So he pours kisses into William's open mouth, sweeping his tongue over his lips and teeth, only coming up for air with tiny, desperate gasps. 

William moves his lithe, long body in luxurious waves against him, his tongue and his humid, uneven breath in his ear. He licks at John's jaw and neck, slides his lips over John's skin until their mouths finally come crashing back together. 

Releasing his arms, William slides his palms down to tuck them behind John’s upper thighs. John gives in, wrapping his arms and legs around the taller man’s shoulders and hips. 

William lifts John’s body to his, spinning him around and laying him over the bathroom counter. John’s head falls back like a ragdoll’s; he grasps desperately at William’s shoulders, digging his fingernails into his skin. William steadies him in place, sinking his hips into the seam of his trousers, his hardness creating warm, magnificent friction.

He places kisses and small bite marks on John’s neck, continuing this rocking motion. He spreads John’s legs further apart with each one, bucking his hips with so much force that John wonders if their trousers will be ripped open.

John’s own hips surge up and down until he can feel William’s hardness align with his arsehole. And when he hits that sweet spot, he gasps and arches his back, biting his own lip to keep from crying out.

There are two layers of clothing between them, but John clenches at him, begging him to rut harder, hoping that somehow he will penetrate him. So William slides his hands down to John’s knees and grips them firmly, spreading them as far as they will go, pressing against him relentlessly; and their mouths and tongues slide together as they gasp and groan in between the filthy words escaping their mouths.

The restroom door swings open. 

William breaks away so quickly that he nearly stumbles over. John hops down, gripping the bathroom counter, breathing so heavily that he's certain he can be heard by everyone in the bar. 

A man walks by without giving them a single look. William smooths down his curls, tucks his shirt in, and quietly slips out the door. 

Jesus. 

John is nauseous, and dizzy, and he feels as though he’s going to collapse. How the hell does a person come down from something like that?

What fuck was that, anyway? 

None of it makes sense. John hates William. Or at least, William hates him. But Christ, never has he been a part of something like that—something so raw and intimate that he thought only existed in fantasies.

That’s when it occurs to him that Stamford is still waiting. He curses to himself, splashes water on his face, and throws on his shirt before returning to the table.

Stamford is happily eating cake. “Hey, mate! You feeling alright? You look a bit flushed and out of breath."

“Yeah. Yeah, right as rain,” John says breathlessly. "You?"

“I’m great. I met a beautiful woman, I drank for free all evening, and I’ve got cake.” 

John sighs with relief and pats him on the back. “Happy to hear that. Should we head home, then?" 

As the two friends exit The Strand, John notices that William is no longer behind the bar—but he thinks he sees puffs of cigarette smoke coming in through an open window.


	2. Closure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John feels it: he’s not the same man he was yesterday. He’s not even the same man he was two hours ago, before being pressed against a wall and kissed by a tragically beautiful bartender in skin-tight jeans.

John gets ready for bed the same way he always does; he says goodnight to Stamford as they head to their own bedrooms, looks at himself in the mirror while washing his face and brushing his teeth, and he knows that on the outside, he appears no different. 

But he feels it: he’s not the same man he was yesterday. He’s not even the same man he was two hours ago, before being pressed against a wall and kissed by a tragically beautiful bartender in skin-tight jeans.

Whatever. He’s tremendously exhausted. So as he dozes off, he tells himself that tonight he can ignore the bizarre events of the evening, and it will all still be there for him tomorrow.

***

And it bloody well is. His encounter with William is the first thing on his mind when he awakens in the morning. And when he makes his breakfast. And when he takes out the rubbish. And when he showers—especially when he showers. It’s the first thing on his mind as he collects his textbooks and school bags and walks to the cafe to study. And as he orders his regular tall soy latte, and as the couple sitting next to the window offer him their seat, and as he opens up his anatomy textbook to his favorite chapter.

John Watson has never been much with a flair for the dramatic—but he’s quite certain that he’s doomed, and that there’s nothing he can do about it, and he blames William entirely.

So he immerses himself in his studies. Buries himself in the familiar: lateral ventricles. Cochlear ducts. Pericardial cavities. The taste of William’s tongue sliding into his mouth. 

Fuck. He slams his pencil onto the table. _That_ definitely won’t be on the exam.

He’s a med student at Harvard, for fuck’s sake. He can name every single bone in the human body. He’s a fantastic student, and a brilliant diagnostician, and he’s got no fucking clue how to explain what happened last night at The Strand.

One moment, he wanted to kick William in the shins for embarrassing him and his friends. And the next moment, the two were practically fucking on the bathroom counter with their clothes on.

A wave of heat passes through his body at the fleeting memory.

He taps his pencil on the open pages of his anatomy textbook as he stares through the window. The sun is out, and the sky is bright—even as snow falls in fluffy, tranquil flakes. The fireplace crackles in the corner over low holiday music, keeping the cafe warm and peaceful. And it really is—beautiful, and peaceful, and everything that the current stirrings of his brain are not. 

He returns to his book, desperately attempting to retain any of the knowledge he’s taking in. But everything useful is immediately replaced with memories of the scent of William’s shampoo. The way his fingers felt against his skin when they brushed over his cheek. The sounds he made when he breathed John’s name against his neck as he arched his body into his. 

He covers his face with his hands, lays his head onto the table, and gives up for the day. Burying himself beneath his textbook, he hides from the world, and hopes he’ll retain the material he needs through some form of osmosis.

***

On day two, he concludes that trying not to think about William isn’t doing him any good. Perhaps the solution is the exact opposite: to think over the situation as much as possible in hopes of gaining some understanding of his own frustration.

If frustration is, in fact, what he feels. Of course, it would also be helpful if he could figure out his feelings. He thoroughly enjoyed everything that happened between the two of them in their heated moment of passion—that’s definitely not the problem. John’s snogged men before. He’s enjoyed intimate moments with many types of genders.

This, though—this was the most intimate encounter he’s ever had. And after something like this, what’s next? Does one keep in touch—or move on? He has no idea how to contact William, anyway. He supposes he could call The Strand, but wouldn’t that be a bit presumptuous? Or would it be worse to ignore him and move on as if nothing happened? 

John sighs with frustration—yes, definitely frustration. Why does he think William would want to get in touch with him, anyway? He didn’t seem to care for him much in the end.

And that’s his conclusion. William doesn’t care, so neither should he.

But when he wanders into his usual cafe that afternoon for his usual study session, he encounters something...not usual.

Behind the counter appears to be a new barista: a tall, pale man with dark, curly hair. John nearly drops his books. His pulse beats faster and faster, and his mouth grows dry.

The barista’s got his back to John, but he’s almost completely certain...he turns to deliver the drink he’s just made—and it’s not _him_. Not even close.

“Argh! Get out of my brain!” John throws his anatomy textbook to the ground. An elderly woman looks up from her tea. John snarls under his breath and leans down to pick it up, noticing that it’s landed directly on an enormous diagram of the male reproductive system. He swipes it off the ground angrily. 

“I hope to god you’ll never again have to deal with one of these,” he mutters to the old woman, and walks back out into the cold. And now, he’s even more annoyed, because after that little scene, he’ll probably have to find a new café to study at.

***

By the end of day three, John is sleep-deprived, and his knowledge of human anatomy has dramatically decreased. He’s craving an Old Fashioned in a way he never has before: the bourbon trickling down his throat, the buzz it creates as the alcohol flows through his veins.

None of that, however, compares to the craving he has for the taste of William. He wonders if the rest of him tastes as sweet as his mouth does. 

And since the last time he tasted him, he’s been over and under and beside himself over what to do next. He’s come up with no successful solution. There is one thing, however, that his body and his mind have been screaming with complete certainty over the past 72 hours.

He needs to see William again. 

And this is how he finds himself on the last bus to Heymarket at half past midnight in the middle of a snowstorm. 

This is why he treads through twenty centimetres of snow, through empty streets, because nobody else in Boston is enough of a nutter to be outdoors. This is how he braves the bitter wind and snow, making his way slowly towards The Strand, regretting every decision he’s ever made in his life.

This is how he finds himself at the bar’s entryway door, and this is how he meets Molly Hooper. And this is how he learns that she’s in love with William.

He stares through the clear window into the bar, where the lights are turned on, and blissfully, the curtains are still drawn. It’s closed for business, and empty except for Molly and William.

Molly is a small, pretty woman with strawberry blond hair. She wears hostess attire, and her hair is all done up with red and white bows, and she’s decorating a large Christmas tree on one side of the bar lounge.

William is seated at a nearby table doing paperwork. The two of them are chatting comfortably while _Let it Snow_ plays over the speaker. Molly dances to the music and giggles as she hangs ornaments and sings loudly along, and William pretends not to be enjoying himself.

But one thing stands out to John more than anything else: the way she looks at William. It’s a look that John knows well. It’s the same way his grandfather would look at his gram before he passed. It’s the look that Clara gave his sister on the day of their wedding. It’s the look that Sarah gave to the man wearing the suit and tie as they left the bar the other night.

And William? William looks happy. Perhaps not for the same reasons, but he looks carefree. Content. Unbothered.

John’s breath forms a thick layer of frost over the bar window. He becomes keenly aware of how much his teeth are chattering and his body is shivering. He figuratively kicks himself for coming out here. What an idiot he’s been. Every moment spent—no, wasted—thinking about William has been pointless. William isn’t thinking about him. He’s happy. He’s continuing life as normal, the way John should have done in the first place.

He brushes the snow from his coat sleeve and huffs a goodbye under his cloudy breath. If nothing else comes from this insanity-fuelled excursion, at least he can say he got some closure. 

God, it’s cold. He takes out his phone to reserve an Uber, trying to distract himself from the likelihood that he’s about to develop hypothermia. “Trapezium, scaphoid, capitate, radius...” he murmurs to himself. Ha. He suddenly remembers anatomy again. “...ulna, lunate, triquetrum, metacarpals, distal, middle, proximal phalanges, pisiform…”

As he takes the first step away from the door, he hears the locks of the entryway clicking loudly, followed by wind slamming the door open. A posh baritone voice calls out over the howling breeze. 

“John. Is that you? What on _earth_ are you doing out here in the cold?”

John’s face and neck burn with embarrassment, which is somewhat of a welcome condition in the face of the biting wind. He spins back on one foot to look up at the man at the doorway. “Yeah, hi, William. I was just, erm, in the neighbourhood, but I’m going now.” 

“You were just... in the neighbourhood... at one in the morning? In the middle of a snowstorm?” William crinkles his forehead with confusion. “And were you...reciting the anatomy of the hand?” His expression is one of disbelief, but it also contains a possible hint of fond amusement.

His skin glows in the low light; snowflakes land in his curls, forming a halo around his head. And his perfect lips part when he exhales, painting the air with his frosty breath.

John shakes his head, shoving his hands deeper into his coat pockets. “I shouldn’t have come here, actually. I was just leaving. I’ll...bye.”

But he doesn’t get far at all. Molly pops out from the entryway, grabs both men by the arm, and pulls them indoors. “William!” she yells. “What the hell are you doing? Get in here and shut the bloody door!” She pushes them both into the lobby, slams the door behind her, and begins dusting the snow off her bare hands. She looks over at John, and then quietly to William.

“William, who’s this?”

He smiles at her nervously. “John is, erm...he didn’t realise we were closed, so he came up for a drink. Didn’t want to leave him out in the cold.”

Molly first frowns at John like he’s mad, and then she beams warmly at him. “Ah, so you know William? Nice to meet you, John. I’m Molly.” She holds her hand out to shake his. “That a London accent you’ve got?”

”Indeed,” John says. “Born and raised. You?”

“From Leeds, actually, but I moved to London when I was ten.” She smiles again. “Are you a student here?”

“Yeah.” John rubs his own arms for warmth. “Harvard medical school.”

She seems to ignore his statement, perhaps distracted by how cold he seems to be. “Jesus, John, it’s freezing.” She grabs him again by the arm. “Come in. I think there’s still some hot coffee at the bar.” 

He glances up at William, who has gone completely silent, but continues to exhibit quiet amusement towards the both of them.

“That would actually be...fantastic.” John gives a little sigh of relief as Molly pulls him to the lounge area and into a seat. She’s a scrappy one. She’s almost disturbingly strong for such a tiny human. “Thank you again,” he says as she walks back towards the bar. “I’m afraid I can’t stay long, though.”

William follows her, still saying nothing—which drives John mad—and continues on with whatever task he was doing previously.

“Well, you can’t go back out right this second, dummy,” Molly laughs. “Didn’t you say you’re a Harvard med student? Aren’t you supposed to be smart?” She returns to the table, setting two mugs of coffee in front of him.

”Ummmmmm...” John eyes the mugs, but doesn’t answer. Instead, he picks it up and takes a sip. Because after tonight, he really doesn’t know the answer to that question.

She laughs again. She’s got a nice smile. She comes off as shy, and proper, and pleasant, but John is entirely sure that she can curse like a sailor, and could probably drink him under a table.

He sighs. As nice as she seems, she’s not the one he wants to be talking to right now. As she sits down in the seat next to him, he looks over her shoulder wistfully at William, who appears to be doing what he does best: ignoring his very existence.

Molly pulls a small bottle of Irish whisky from her handbag and pours it into her coffee. She holds it out to John in offering, but he declines. She shrugs, screws the cap back on, and returns the bottle to her bag.

“So.” She stirs her coffee and lifts her eyes curiously. “How do you and William know one another?”

John taps his fingers on the table nervously. “I, erm. Through the Strand, I guess. He makes the best Old Fashioned in Boston. I speak from experience.”

Molly’s face lights up, her heart suddenly in her eyes. “Yeah, he’s pretty fucking amazing, isn’t he?”

John supposes it must be true, in some capacity—Molly does, in fact, know William far better than he does. All John knows about him is the smoothness of his bare skin. And the way the scent of his aftershave mixes with the scent of their sweaty bodies. And the desperate little noises he makes when he comes up for air between kisses.

“Right.” He clears his throat. “So, Molly, are you a student here as well, or—?”

”Yeah.” She casually takes a swig of her drink. “MIT, engineering PhD candidate.”

He frowns at her. “Christ,” he mutters as she attempts to lick coffee from the back of her spoon. Honestly, she appears to be no older than eighteen or nineteen. “How old are you, if you don’t mind my asking?”

She laughs again. “It’s fine,” she says almost timidly. “I get that a lot. I’m 23, actually, but I was homeschooled, so I started university early.”

“You must be brilliant,” John says with true admiration.

Molly’s spoon slips out of her fingers, landing in her mug and splashing coffee all over the table. She finds her own awkwardness highly amusing, and she doubles over in laughter. John finds it endearing, and can’t help but genuinely join in with her. It’s actually sort of difficult not to like her.

”Thanks,” Molly says after they’re able to compose themselves. “It’s nice to hear that. Easy to forget that sort of thing when you’re constantly around other brilliant people.” 

“Yeah. I get that,” John says. “MIT students are a pretty intellectual bunch.”

“I wasn’t actually referring to them.” Her eyes shift towards William. “I spend most evenings with the most brilliant person I’ve ever met. Something he never fails to remind me of, by the way.”

And there it is: the same look on her face that he saw before. 

John watches Molly, watching William, and he suddenly feels an overwhelming closeness towards her. “Molly, erm...” He shifts in his seat. “Are you two...that is, you and William...are you—?”

Molly bursts into laughter. “God, no. I mean, I’d love to be. Been madly in love with that bastard since the moment I met him. But he’s not attracted to women, and, well.” She looks down to her breasts, and then back up at John. “You think a smart girl like myself would have moved on by now, knowing that, but...nope.” She sighs deeply, slumping her shoulders. “Seriously. Fuck my life.”

“I completely understand what you mean.” John takes her hand in his. He finds her openness refreshing. “And you know what? You can’t help who you love. This is just further proof of that.” He squeezes her hand lightly. “I mean, what sane person would choose to fall in love with men? Because when it comes to relationships, men can be fucking nightmares.”

Molly beams, her hair tousled and her eyes brimming with tears. “Yeah. They really are, a bit.”

”Look, Molly,” John says. “I’ve been trapped in a snowstorm with you for all of five minutes, but I can tell that you’ve got so much to offer. You’re beautiful, intelligent, witty, and fun to be around. And although the people you may fall in love with aren’t always a choice, the people you let into your life can be. So I do hope you’ll soon invite someone in who loves you completely for who you are, and who loves all of those wonderful things about you.” His eyes flit back to William. “And someone who won’t drive you to the point of insanity, or to the bus stop in a snowstorm at midnight.”

When he looks back at Molly, tears are streaming down her face, and a high-pitched noise escapes her—one that somewhat resembles his name. She wraps her arms around his neck and proceeds to kiss him on the cheek about a dozen times.

”John. You’re amazing and I love you,” she sniffles. “And I’ll remember what you said. I promise.” She reaches her hand up and ruffles his hair. “But only if you promise to live by those words, too, yeah?”

John would respond if he could, but Molly’s arms are now squeezing his neck and cutting off his vocal cords and windpipes. And he can’t tell if it’s the emotion or lack of oxygen, but he begins to feel himself becoming teary-eyed as well.

”Deal,” he finally croaks. She loosens her grip on him, but she doesn’t let go completely. That is, until William returns to the table.

”Sorry to, erm...interrupt,” he says. “But the weather has cleared up slightly. Molly, I’ve called you an Uber. It should be here in about two minutes.”

She unwinds her arms from John, and another high-pitched squeal comes out of her. “You called an Uber for me?”

William smiles warmly at her. “Of course, Doctor Hooper. I want to be sure you make it home safe.”

Molly straightens herself up, jumps into the air to give William a quick kiss on the cheek, and wraps her arms around his shoulders as well.

”Thank you, love,” she says. “You’re the best friend a girl could ever ask for.” She lets go of him, and he squeezes her shoulder.

”Colleague,” he corrects her facetiously.

She rolls her eyes at him and swats him on the arm, just as a car rolls up outside and honks its horn.

William pulls out his phone. “Your ride is here,” he confirms.

She smiles at him before pulling her coat and scarf on, and she turns back towards John to kiss him once more on the cheek. “It was so lovely to meet you, mate. Hope we’ll see one another again.”

He smiles at her. “You can bet on it.”

With that, she ventures outside and into the blistering cold, leaving John and William alone in the silent, empty bar.

The moment she leaves, the tension in the air becomes so thick that John feels as though he may suffocate.

William stands next to him and says nothing. John also says nothing. But his brain has quite a lot to say. And it mostly wants to go on about the naughty things he and the idiot next to him could be doing. He suddenly notes how warm the room is. He’s sweating. He’s _got_ to unbutton his coat. 

William finally shifts his feet slightly. “You chatted with Molly, then.”

”Yeah. She’s delightful.”

”She really is,” William says softly. “And she seems to have taken an instant liking to _you_.”

John turns, finding himself face to face with the other man. “Does that bother you somehow?”

William narrows his eyes. “Why on earth would that bother me?”

John sighs with frustration—again, frustration. It’s the only identifiable, quantifiable emotion that William seems to evoke in him.

”John.” William’s voice remains hushed, but he regards him with an alarming intensity, his eyes sparkling like gemstones. “Please tell me the truth. Why did you come here tonight?”

John doesn’t break his gaze, even though it burns him. “It’s like you said earlier. I suppose I just needed a drink.”

What good would it do him to be honest? He’s got what he needs for tonight: closure and a dozen kisses from a pretty, mostly sober girl. And he tries to convince himself that he’s only imagined the look of disappointment flashing over William’s features—which becomes much easier as it dissolves into an icy glare. 

“Then you’re an idiot,” William says through tight lips. “Everyone in their right minds went indoors hours ago to have a drink in their own bloody homes—and yet, here you are, treading through the snow like some stubborn mule!”

“I’ve got nothing to say to that.” John rips his eyes away from him and heads towards the entryway. 

William scoffs. “You’re going back out there? The buses have stopped running, and you haven’t called a cab. Or is your absurdly overblown sense of tenacity your primary form of transport?”

“Clever.” John gives him an insincere grin. “Right, so I believe we’re done here. Goodbye, William.”

He takes a final step towards the door, shoving with all of his might, hoping to demonstrate the depth of his vexation. But the door doesn’t move—and he bumps his head into the glass.

“Gaaah! Fuck!” he cries, staggering backwards.

William swiftly approaches from behind, taking him by the arms to steady him. “Are you alright?” he asks.

“Yes...I think so.” John touches his forehead, checking for any injury. But he soon becomes keenly aware of William’s body huddled into his—his fingers wrapped protectively around his arms, his irregular breaths at the back of his neck.

William reaches over John’s shoulder to twist the door handle. “Molly must have locked it on her way out.” His face brushes against John’s cheek, hovering a hair’s width from his. He pauses, lowering his head. “There.”

“Thank you,” John says softly. It would be so easy, he thinks, for William to laugh at his clumsiness; to belittle him. Much easier than before. But he doesn’t. Why doesn’t he?

Rather, he lingers, chest expanding and contracting against John’s ribcage, the musky aroma of his cologne tickling John’s senses.

“You’re welcome,” he mumbles. “You’re all set. You can go now.”

But John doesn’t go. He exhales, subtly tilting his head forward onto the hard, cold glass. It’s a quiet act of defeat.

He’s not going anywhere—not yet.

William, perceptive as always, drops his arms until they fall onto John’s hips in a natural motion. He dips his head down, lips brushing John’s skin with tender, barely-there kisses.

“John,” he breathes, curls tickling John’s skin. “If this is not what you want, I can stop. Just say the word and I’ll—”

John’s skin tingles from head to toe. “Don’t stop.” He places both hands on the door in front of them, splaying his fingers over the cold, foggy glass. “Please. Don’t stop.”

William sighs into him, snaking his arms around John’s waist in an embrace, his kisses growing firmer and more deliberate.

“Then I’m going to ask one more time.” He slides his hands down to the hem of John’s trousers, fingers teasing his hipbones. “Why did you come here tonight?” 

John inhales sharply. “Haven’t you figured it out?”

William hums, his fingers dancing tortuously at John’s waistline. “I need to hear you say it.”

“I...I haven’t stopped thinking about the other night,” John says, biting his lip with anticipation.   
  
William softly traces the hair beneath John’s navel. “Nor have I,” he rumbles. “How might we alleviate that?”

“Nnngh, I—“ John swallows as William flicks his tongue over his neck, his jaw, his ear, placing open-mouthed kisses on his skin.

“I‘ve tried everything,” John says between ragged breaths. “But I couldn’t— _Jesus_.”

His words are stifled as William’s fingers finally crawl beneath his pants, grazing the head of his leaking cock.

“Go on.”

John wants to rip William’s hair out for torturing him like this, but he’s desperate—desperate—to finish what they didn’t finish the other night.

“I need—fucking hell. I—“ he gasps as William buries his hands deep into his trousers, wrapping his fingers around the base of his pulsing cock.

John takes deep breath, using all of his willpower to form words. “I need to know what it feels like to have you inside me. For three bloody days, I’ve thought of nothing else. Christ, William, please—fuck me. I’m desperate; I need it more than the air I breathe.“

“Good.” William surges his body forward, pressing John into a leaning position, and John pushes backwards, craving the hardness between his legs.

“Your eagerness is profoundly arousing,” William purrs, setting a hand gently beneath John’s jawbone. “But I’ll need to open you up first.”

He gracefully slides his forefinger and middle finger into John’s mouth—and John finds it so insanely sensual that he makes a noise so loud it’s nearly embarrassing. He wraps his lips around William’s long, graceful fingers, moaning and sucking enthusiastically.

_More._ He slides his tongue over them—wet, hungry, greedy, and he  takes William’s wrist, guiding him in deeper.

As William thrusts his fingers in and out of John’s mouth, he uses his other hand to undo the buttons of John’s trousers. They fall to the floor, collecting at his ankles, and John’s cock bobs out—purple and dripping with moisture onto the glass door in front of them.

John hears William’s belt unbuckle behind him, and the rustling sound of his trousers falling as well. And then he feels his silky, wet cock pressed against the small of his back, just over the crevice of his arse.

William spreads him open, removing his soaking wet fingers and pushing his forefinger in, rutting his hips in unison as he breaches his opening. 

“God, god yes,” John cries out as the other man rocks his hips into him.

William pushes a second finger in, continuing the same rhythm, frotting against him, his cock leaving wet trails on his back as his fingers spread him open.

“William.” John pleads breathlessly. His entire body pulsates, and he’s all in knots, and he wants more, more, more.

William presses a final kiss to his bare shoulder, sliding his fingers out, and his smooth, pulsing cock into him—finally, finally, finallly.

They both go quiet. William grips tightly onto John’s hips and fucks him, skin slapping against skin, their heavy breaths fogging up the glass door.

As it turns out—although boarding the last bus to Heymarket during a blizzard and treading through 20 centimetres of snow was fucking insane—it was well worth it.

Because this—whatever  this is—is exactly what John needed. The searing pleasure of William taking him, right here, in the bar where they met only days before, among the scent of cigars and icy air and sweat and sex.

So when he comes, shivering and pulsing and untouched, with William’s cock buried deep inside him—his mind is at ease. And when William pulls himself out, spins him around, and rubs the head of his cock until he comes on John’s belly, John pulls him back in, openly kissing him and kissing him and kissing him with all the fire in his body.

And as his cab arrives, he kisses William goodbye before walking back into the storm, and he knows they’ll see one another again.

It’s not closure—it’s something far more profound. It’s the beginning. Of what, exactly, he’s unsure.

It doesn’t matter. Because this thing that’s happening between them—whatever it is—it’s real. It may not have a name, but it’s real.


	3. Behind Wooden Doors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And so begins the uncomplicated, unspoken agreement between John and William the Bartender.

And so begins the uncomplicated, unspoken agreement between John and William the Bartender.

Sex, and nothing more. No attachments, no obligations, no lies. No exchanging of numbers, no invitations. A fantasy world that exists solely within  The Strand.

During a cigarette break, perhaps, against the cold brick wall of the alleyway. Or before a shift begins, bent across the bar. Or after closing time, the two of them spread over a barstool as Molly counts cash in the business office.

It often begins as it does tonight. John, alone his flat after a long day of studying, hand wandering beneath his trousers as his mind wanders to William—the sensation of William’s fingers skimming over his neck. His sweaty stomach and slender hips. His soft moans and heavy breaths; his hardness and the warm, sticky release of their desire for one another.

John walks into The Strand at approximately nine o’clock. A live jazz quartet plays in the background; a pleasant mix of artsy university students and young businesspeople have drinks after a long day at the office.

He receives a warm greeting from Molly, who leans across the bar and wraps her arms around his shoulders.

“Hey, love!” She kisses him on the cheek, her blue eyes twinkling. “Here to see William? He’s not working tonight, I’m afraid. But no worries—Irene and I will take great care of you!”

“I…” John hesitates, his eyes flitting nervously away as she starts making his drink. He’s not exactly hiding their tryst from her—she’s far too clever not to have noticed it by now. But her feelings for William do complicate things a bit. If it bothers her, however, she’s never let on.

He glances over her shoulder at the other barmaid: a dark-haired woman who’s all curves and bright red lips. She wears a tight black leather corset and an even tighter black skirt, batting her eyelashes flirtatiously at her patrons as she makes their drinks.

John realizes he’s seen her before—she’s the woman who was talking to William the first time he visited The Strand. The realization sparks a flicker of jealousy in him—one that he quickly suppresses. William isn’t his to become jealous over, after all.

“Helloooooo,” Molly playfully pokes John’s arm. “You can talk to her, if you want. No need to stare.”

John laughs uncomfortably. “Her name’s Irene, you said? Haven’t met her before. She new?”

“No, but she only works here a couple of nights a week.” She leans in closer and drops her voice low. “This is just a side gig for her. Other nights, she works as an expensive escort. You know, the kind with the leather and the chains.“ She winks playfully as she slides his drink over. 

“Yeah?” John lifts the drink to his lips, swallowing it down and letting it burn his throat.

“Yeah. And she’s amazing at it, actually. Makes a fuck-ton of money doing it, too. Pretty sure she just does the bartending gig for fun.”

John briefly wonders if William has ever participated in Irene’s services. The two of them did seem rather friendly; the way she touched his arm and laughed at all of his jokes and—and there it is again. Jealousy, rearing its ugly head, a bit more heated this time.

“Right.” He clears his throat. “Well, I hate to steal all of your time away from all the other people here, Molly—“

“Oh! Yeah, I ought to get to work.” She waves. “Talk to you soon, mate.”

As Molly buzzes about the bar, Irene saunters around between customers; she definitely has an allure about her that’s entirely unique and overtly sensual. And it isn’t limited to men—women seem to be drawn to her equally, if not more. And she basks in the attention, making doe eyes at all the ladies who come by.

John nurses his drink, trying not to pity himself over the reality that he won’t be seeing William tonight; about how he’ll just head home alone and stroke himself in his bed thinking of the things he’d do to William if he could.

As the bar becomes more crowded, men and women approach him periodically, but he politely declines any offer to buy him a drink. Hmm. He wonders what’s gotten into him.

The moment his glass is empty, Irene approaches, gazing up at him beneath thick, dark lashes.

“Hey.” She flashes a sultry smile and leans over the bar, providing ample view of her voluptuous body. “Want more?”

John’s throat goes dry. “Erm, Okay. Yes.”

She eyes him for a moment, sizing him up. He can’t decide whether he finds it sexy or intimidating. 

“You must be John. I’m Irene.” She leans away to make his drink.

She knows his name. Does this mean William has spoken of him?

A rush of heat flows to John’s cheeks, but he plays it cool. “Yeah. Hi. Nice to meet you. I mean, I’m assuming we haven’t met before...although you know my name?”

“Molly told me.” She reaches back over and slides his drink to him. “I would definitely remember meeting a handsome man like you, John.” She smiles. “Let me know if you need anything—I’m at your disposal.”

Images flash through his mind of her standing before William—in nothing but that leather corset, holding a whip or some other apparatus that John doesn’t know the name of. The jealousy at this point seems inevitable. But why should it be? Whether or not William is into that—or her—who can blame him? She’s clearly a beautiful, very sexy woman who would know how to treat a man in the bedroom.

As soon as his second drink is finished, he decides it’s time to head out, so he pushes it away and opens up his wallet. But before he can settle the bill, Irene approaches him, setting a hand firmly on his shoulder and giving him a sly, crimson smile.

“Your bottle service is ready,” she says.

He frowns with confusion. “There must be a mistake. I didn’t order bottle service.”

“I don’t make such simple mistakes.” She takes him by the hand and guides him from his seat. “Follow me.”

He can’t say no to her. Partially because he’s significantly intrigued—but mostly because she’s a bit frightening, and he doesn’t think she’s used to anyone telling her no, and he’d hate to see what would happen if he did.

She wordlessly escorts him to the rear end of the lounge, where the two of them come to a pair of saloon-style swinging doors.

“Enjoy yourself, darling.” She winks at him, lets go of his hands, and walks away.

His curiosity overpowers any hesitation he may have. Cautiously, he opens the doors to a small room lit only by The Strand’s customary red lights. In the center of the room is a large booth with a circular table. On the table, an unopened bottle of Cabernet is placed next to two empty glasses. 

Sitting at the table is William, wearing his silky tight button-down shirt and pressed grey slacks. His fingers graze his lips, and his gaze burns John through the low light of the dark room.

"John." 

“William,” John exhales with a whoosh of air. “Thought you weren’t here tonight.”

He chuckles. “I’m pretty much always here.”

“Oh. Well. Good.”

“Mm, yes.” William rises from his seat and sweeps across the room to take John by his shirt collar. “I'd say that's enough talking.“

John bites his lower lip; it tingles with longing for the touch of William’s own.

William pulls John towards him, sealing their lips together, rough and desperate.

“Mmmm, yes,” John echoes. He slides his arms around William's slender waist, pulling their lower bodies close, scrabbling for whatever piece of his clothing he can grab onto. Finally, he untucks his shirt from his trousers and slides his hands beneath, settling his open palms on the small of his back. 

As the two men slide their tongues and lips together, William swiftly and skillfully undoes John’s shirt and slides it down over his shoulders. Just as swiftly and skillfully, he undoes his own. He takes John by the hips, brushing his fingers over the hem of his trousers as he is so often inclined to do, teasing for a few moments before he unbuttons them.

John breaks the kiss and breathlessly dips his head down, licking the smooth, cool skin of William’s clavicle; dragging his tongue over his chest and taking his hard pink nipple into his mouth.

As he sinfully swirls his tongue, William throws his head back with a deep groan, placing his thumbs between John’s hipbones and squeezing them intermittently. John drags his tongue to the other nipple, biting lightly between kisses. He licks a wet trail up William’s chest, neck, and cheek before sliding his tongue back into his mouth, kissing him deeply.

As soon as the kiss is broken, William pulls back and looks him in the eye mischievously. He then drops to his knees, pulling John’s trousers down with him.

John barely has the time to take a breath before William’s thick lips are sealed around the head of his cock. His hands fall to William’s shoulders and he squeezes hard, moaning with desire as he flicks his tongue over the tip.

William envelops the entire length of John’s shaft within his velvety, warm mouth, taking it in all at once; and John has to dig his fingers into his flesh to keep from rutting into his throat. But William urges him otherwise, guiding John by the hips deeper into his mouth.

"Christ,” John hisses. “Christ, William. Be careful, I… I don’t want to hurt you.”

It’s as though William can’t possibly get enough; he moans hungrily, pressing John’s hips further into his throat. He's desperate and half-starved, utterly insatiable, licking and sucking it as though he’s never craved anything more in his life.

John’s eyes grow moist from the pleasure of it. He tries with all his might to control his thrusts, but the more he holds back, the more William pushes and pushes, swirling his tongue over the veins and the sensitive skin.

He finally gives in and begins fucking William’s mouth steadily, his forehead damp with sweat, his fingernails practically breaking the skin on William’s shoulders. It isn’t long before he feels his testicles tightening, the heat pooling in his lower body.

“Fuck,” he murmurs breathlessly. “Oh god. Fuck. I’m coming.”

William pulls his mouth off of him with a wet, dirty sound. “Not yet.”

“CHRIST,” John swears, feeling as though he may lose his balance. “That was cruel.”

William rumbles a low laugh as he stands and releases John’s hips. “Lie down on the table for me,” he instructs. “Spread your legs as far apart as you possibly can.”

“Fuck,” John says for what must be the eightieth time. “Are you trying to kill me?”

William lifts an eyebrow wickedly. John chuckles, but obeys. He lies on his back across the center of the large table; there’s enough room for him to place his feet flat on the edge as he spreads open.

William unbuttons his own trousers and steps out of them, his cock hard and glistening at the tip with liquid. The sight of him sends a tremendous shiver through John’s body.

William smirks once more before falling to his knees—wrapping his arms around John’s legs to spread him further still—and he places soft kisses to his inner thighs.

John freezes, inhaling sharply as he caresses him with his tongue, gliding it down to his testicles, across the skin and down until it’s flat against his arsehole.

“Yes,” John murmurs as he squirms on top of the cold table.  _“Yes.”_

William flicks his tongue up and down the outer part of his opening. As he pokes it in, John tries not to arch his hips upwards, but it’s once again a losing battle; William slides his hands to his upper thighs and presses him firmly back down.

As he thrusts his tongue repeatedly into John’s tight opening, John is so turned on that his whole body trembles. He doesn’t think he can go much longer without his cock being touched—so he takes himself into his hand; sliding slowly and carefully up and down the shaft, breathing steadily as he tries to delay his orgasm.

William moans at the pleasure of watching him; he soon follows suit, wrapping his long fingers around his own cock.  


He pulls at it as he continues sucking and kissing John’s warm opening. His face becomes wet with saliva; he’s buried between John’s legs so deeply that John wonders how he’s even breathing—hell, he’s not entirely sure how he’s breathing himself.

Then, John’s cock begins to pulse, wildly and abruptly. His body seizes, and thick spurts of hot liquid pour into his hand.

He can feel William's body freeze as he moans against his opening. The movements of his tongue grow lazier—John’s sure that he’s coming, too—moving rhythmically in and out with the pulsations of his own release.

He doesn’t stop there, though. He pulls John closer, thrusting his tongue back into his throbbing arsehole, drawing out the length of John's orgasm. The intensity of the pleasure is so great that John nearly sobs—but William isn’t done with him yet. He quickly pulls his head away and seals his lips over John’s cock once more, sucking and licking at it fervently, his sweat-drenched hair plastered to his forehead, and he’s so fucking beautiful and amazing and—and God, John is coming again, shivering and groaning as he empties himself completely into William’s mouth.

William licks him dry, enjoying every drop of him. After a few moments of allowing them to catch their breaths, he takes John by the hands.

He pulls him from the table and kisses him passionately. He tastes like honey, ashes, and John.

“Wine?” he asks as the kiss is broken. “It’s Chateau Montela Cabernet.”

“I’d love some.”

John definitely needs a drink after that.


	4. A Perfectly Predictable Arrangement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He definitely wasn’t expecting William to meet him at the entrance. He wasn’t expecting to be dragged indoors by the drenched lapels of his coat; or for William to kiss him as though he’s been longing to kiss him for a hundred years. He wasn’t expecting him to taste of vodka and tears and cigarettes, and he wasn’t expecting the soft, sweet whimpers of affection.
> 
> William pulls away, his mouth kiss-swollen, and he stares back at him as though he's sure this is all a dream.
> 
> “I wasn’t expecting you to come,” he murmurs, and John wasn’t expecting the sadness in those words.
> 
> So he takes William’s head into his hands and kisses him tenderly, his chest aching with a clear, deep affection.
> 
> Oh. He wasn’t quite expecting that, either.

As December passes, John and William carry on with their amorous encounters. John spends most of his days studying for exams—and more often than not, he fills his evenings with intensely gratifying, intensely erotic sex at The Strand.

The unnamed thing the two of them have is quite magnificent, and that’s exactly how John wants to keep it.

So he decides, quite early on, that he won’t be visiting The Strand on Christmas. Spending the holidays with someone carries a weight that most days do not. Christmas, especially, is meant to be spent with friends, family, and lovers—and he and William are none of these things.

But time goes quickly, and Christmas Eve seems to approach without warning—and with it, a familiar loneliness that John has never quite been able to ignore.

He approaches The Strand’s entryway, soaking wet from the freezing rain. Even four drinks in, he should have known better. It’s past midnight, and the rain is pissing down, and every bar and every mode of transportation has been closed for the holiday. Why did he come here? What was he even expecting?

He definitely wasn’t expecting William to meet him at the entrance. He wasn’t expecting to be dragged indoors by the drenched lapels of his coat; or for William to kiss him as though he’s been longing to kiss him for a hundred years. He wasn’t expecting him to taste of vodka and tears and cigarettes, and he wasn’t expecting the soft, sweet whimpers of affection.

William pulls away, his mouth kiss-swollen, and he stares back at him as though he's sure this is all a dream.

“I wasn’t expecting you to come,” he murmurs, and John wasn’t expecting the sadness in those words.

So he takes William’s head into his hands and kisses him tenderly, his chest aching with a clear, deep affection.

Oh. He wasn’t quite expecting that, either. 

***

In his childhood, John was admittedly a bit melancholic—but this always seemed to change around Christmastime. As if by magic, his worries got swept away, like snow, beneath a bed of gifts and twinkling lights and decorated trees.

Christmas carols on the radio would drown out the sounds of his parents arguing, and Harry would coax him to sleep with stories of sugarplum fairies. On Christmas morning, their mum would spoil them with gifts—though their father never approved, because money spent on gambling and alcohol was apparently a wiser decision. 

None of that mattered, though, because for one day, he’d gather around the table with his sister and his mum and gorge on ham and Christmas pudding and movies. For one day, he got to pretend his family was happy.

Over the years, though, Christmas has become more about regret; regret that he’s so far from home, and so far from his sister. Regret that another year has come and gone, and that he’s done nothing but work and study, failing to put aside time for himself or to nurture any type of relationship. 

He’s got Stamford, of course—and he's thankful to be here, with him and his girlfriend, at 9 pm on Christmas Eve, inside Random Club #347—but there’s only so much third-wheeling one can do. So he drinks, and his gaze falls to the happy couple, and he wonders why he's feeling anything for them other than happiness.

Not even the alcohol can dull the booming bass that erupts from the speakers, or the clamoring of hundreds of drunken people. It doesn’t dull the bright lights, either, or the scent of various colognes battling the smell of sweaty bodies.

Even surrounded by people, John feels lonely.

But he will not be going to The Strand tonight. That’s one thing he does know. He’s been over it so many times with himself that the words spin around in his head like a mantra.

A bit of time and a few cocktails later, a man slides into the seat next to him. He smiles, leans over to his ear and asks what he’s drinking.

He’s got silky dark brown hair that falls into his face and over his shoulders, and sapphire eyes that sparkle as much as his smile. He’s had a bit to drink, but so has John. And John likes the way he looks at him, and he likes how close he’s sitting, and he likes the scent of his cologne. He likes the soft stubble on his face that causes him to look rugged and posh all at once.  


So when he asks John for his name, he tells him. And when he invites John to dance, he says yes—but only because his fingertips crave another person’s skin. And when he kisses John on the dance floor, John kisses back—but only because he thinks it will cure his loneliness.  


It doesn’t. So John keeps kissing him, hoping it will somehow fill him up.

They move their sweaty bodies together, writhing and kissing heatedly. The man presses his hardness into him, slips his fingers just beneath the hem of his pants, and asks if he can take him home. And John agrees, but only because anything would feel better than sleeping alone.

But when the two of them walk into the rain, John realizes how empty he actually is, and that he’s got nothing left to give him. The man is disappointed but understanding. Before getting into the cab, he kisses John on the cheek, gives him his phone number, and invites him to join him for coffee sometime. John smiles and nods, but knows that he won’t.

He texts Stamford to tell him he’s headed out to see a friend, and he slides his phone back into his pocket. He pulls his coat over his head, still running on empty, and begins his journey through the freezing rain towards the person he truly wants to see.

The mantra from earlier checks in, but he pays it no mind.

***

“You’re wet.” William tugs at John’s shirt, sliding his hands beneath it—across the slick skin of his chest, his stomach, his hipbones. "Can I help you with that?" He places open-mouthed kisses on his neck. "Your clothing, I mean."

John tucks his hands into William’s trouser pockets and pulls him in tightly. William gives him a disapproving pout at the prospect of his clothing becoming damp as well, but the hardness they feel between one another’s legs serves as a welcome distraction.

John’s already forgotten what William asked, but he knows his answer is more than likely yes. So he tilts his chin and kisses him fiercely, hoping to convey the message.

It seems he does. Without breaking the kiss, William pulls John’s shirt over his head and tosses it to the ground.

He then removes his own shirt. "I'll use this to dry you off from the rain," he explains as he folds it in half.

John hums against his lips. “You’re going to dry off my entire body off with your thin, already damp cotton undershirt?” 

William dabs the shirt delicately at John's abdomen. “I suppose I could go and get a proper towel from behind the bar.” He begins to unfasten his trousers, slipping one hand beneath his underwear to graze the tip of his cock. “...But it seems rather far away at the moment.”

John moans softly. "Ah, yes. I'd say you made the right decision."

“Inconclusive." William lets his shirt drop to the floor and begins undoing his own trousers. He folds over his underwear to reveal the tip of his cock, thick and dark with arousal. “Perhaps there are other things I can help you with.”

John heaves a shaky sigh as William rubs the heads of their cocks together. "Yes,” he breathes. “I suppose there are.”

William hums with curious enthusiasm, his lips against temples of John’s sweat-drenched forehead. He wraps his fingers around the base of John’s cock and squeezes. “How can I be of service to you, John?”

Blood rushes to John's ears, his heart pumping loud and fast. “We ought to start by removing the rest of our clothing.”

“Fair.” William tugs the remaining garments off John’s lower body, and John leans down to untie his own shoes.

But he grossly underestimates his level of intoxication. He topples forward, grabbing onto the nearest sturdy object—which is William, of course—who he takes to the floor with him.

The two of them untwist and unwind from one another, roll to their backs, and dissolve into fits of laughter.

"Oh my god," William groans. "What on earth  was  that?”

The air has been knocked from John’s lungs, and his heart beats monstrously fast, and his chest is convulsing from all of the giggling. “...I’m sorry," he gasps. "It’s just... I had a few too many drinks…I suppose...” He pauses. "Forget about me. You fell, too. You okay?”

“Of course." William kicks off the remainder of his clothing, tossing it into a pile near the Christmas tree. He maneuvers his body, draping his legs over John, straddling his waist and pinning him to the floor.

John feels breathless again, but not because he’s fallen. William gazes down at him, and his eyes are a bright, luminous green—a stark contrast from earlier, when they were blown wide and dark with arousal. And though they’re still a bit sad, they’re also every bit as wanting.

“I’m happy you came here tonight, John," he says earnestly. 

“Me too,” John responds. The air between them is electric, and it terrifies him.

But he reminds himself that it's Christmas, and Christmas is a day to play make-believe. That it's just for now, and that soon, whatever feelings they have for each other will be gone, and the two of them can return to their perfectly predictable arrangement.

“Well, John. What comes next?” William bats his dark eyelashes coquettishly as if to convey pure innocence. But his feigned innocence does nothing to hide the very real sensation of his hardness resting beneath John's belly button. 

“Honestly?" John’s neck burns hot as his eyes fall to his waist. “I want to wrap my lips around your cock so badly that I'm about to go mad."

William grins, and every ounce of innocence—real or unreal—falls from his face. He works his body up over John’s, positioning one leg on either side of his head. Slowly, he brings his hard, dripping cock to his mouth.

“Yes. Good,” John moans, parting his lips. “Let me taste you.”

But William only means to tease him. He takes himself into his hand, tracing John’s lips with his cock, lazily dragging it from corner to corner.

“Ungghh,” John groans. "Please. I'm begging you."

William chuckles lowly. “Alright. I suppose I won’t torture you this time. Consider this your gift.”

”I’d make a ridiculous joke about unwrapping it or whatever, but my mouth is very busy right now.” John lightly flicks his tongue over the head of William’s cock, eliciting a moan of pleasure from him. He glides his wet lips hungrily over the shaft, and William gasps—body stiffening at first, but relaxing as John swirls his tongue in circles on the underside.

John pulls away a bit and sucks him back in—more deeply this time. He moves up and down his length, hollowing his cheeks to create friction. William obliges, rocking his hips as John eagerly takes every inch.

He tastes incredible, but it’s not enough—John wants more, more, more. He pulls away and looks up at William, who stares back down in a blissful haze.

“I want to taste more of you,” John says. “I want to taste all of you.”

William hums with enthusiastic approval. He begins to readjust the position of his body, dragging his cock over John's lips—and from top to bottom, John meets every centimeter with his tongue. He pauses to give a moment of attention to his testicles before sliding his hands to William’s back and urging him to continue forward. And as soon as it’s within reach, he presses his eager tongue inside the tight, smooth ring William’s arsehole—his arousal so profound and animalistic that it borders on overwhelming.

William indulges in his warm, wet mouth, the sounds that escape him equally animalistic. John gives more and more, and William takes him in deeper and deeper with every thrust, the tempo of their movements raising with their heartbeats.

John’s hips lift involuntarily from the ground, and it occurs to him how badly he’s aching to be touched. He slides his hand below his waist and takes his twitching cock into his hand, still keeping up with every movement as William rides his tongue.

William—who is clearly some level of evil genius, his observation skills far above average—quickly catches on. He exhales, pulling away and repositioning himself just below John’s waist.  


“I want you inside me, John,” he rumbles, biting his lip and grinning coyly. 

John pulls him down by the shoulders. They kiss passionately and messily, all tongues and teeth. Nothing more needs to be said.

William realigns himself, guiding John’s thick, heavy cock into his body. As John grazes his warm opening, he begins to wonder if he'll die from the anticipation. But when William bears down onto him, taking in all of him with one long movement, John is convinced that he's died already, and that this must be heaven. 

He buries himself inside William, their cries of pleasure and passion mixing together, and it becomes difficult to tell where his body ends and William's begins. John loses all control, fucking him without mercy. But he doesn’t fight it—he gives himself to William, letting himself be consumed by his slick heat. And as his pelvic muscles begin to tighten and his skin buzzes with electricity—he thinks that actually, he'd happily give William anything. 

John climaxes with his entire body; an intense, shivering wave of pleasure rolling through him. His heart thumps so loudly in his ears that he doesn't even know what noises he makes. He's digging fingernails into flesh, tugging at hair, his cock throbbing relentlessly.

William’s body begins to clench around John’s cock, and John opens his eyes to behold the sight of him—as he bounces up and down over him, his head is thrown gracefully back, exposing his delicious neck. His full lips and vibrant eyes are twisted shut; his fingers skim aimlessly over his bare chest, and his long, pale torso glistens with sweat. One hand is wrapped tightly around his own length, and he works it in fast sliding motions until it begins to erupt. 

When it does, he goes still and silent, utterly overwhelmed by the pleasure. He releases a long, rattling sigh, his legs quivering as he pours himself into his hand.

John watches in awe. God, he's beautiful like that.

William smiles down at him—the quiet sadness still there—and it reignites the flame of affection in John's chest. But as the two men collapse onto the ground, limbs tangled together—John doesn't try to put it out. And as he lays his head on William's shoulder, drifting off into a dreamless sleep, he kindles it—not thinking about how he may be burned.

It’s Christmas, after all—and on Christmas, he's allowed to pretend.


	5. Brighter Than a Diamond

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sun sets over the snow-dusted city landscape—turning the sky six shades of purple and blue.
> 
> John kisses William. “I’d like to kiss you until the stars come out,” he tells him. 
> 
> "Me, too," William says, and kisses him back.

John sleeps soundly through the night.

They awaken Christmas morning on the cool hardwood floor of The Strand, still tangled in limbs and rain-dampened clothing. John’s head throbs from a hangover as he shields his face from the morning light.

William lays his head peacefully on his stomach and murmurs a sleepy good morning. His voice fills the emptiness in John’s chest, and the pain seems to disappear. And when he touches John, all of his loneliness fades into a barely-there memory; a brief chapter in another person’s story. 

Today, like every Christmas, John lets himself be warmed by the glow of happiness. Though it's unlike any Christmas he’s experienced, there is certainly something in the air that feels like magic. 

Today, there will be no fear—only fond, flirtatious glances. And laughter—the kind that begins below the belly button and bubbles up through the chest and rolls down the cheeks in the form of tears. No fear, only stolen kisses, and fingertips laced through fingertips, tracing hip bones and rib cages and clavicles. 

Because John knows this flight of fancy will end after the sun goes down. He knows why, and he knows how. So even as the temperature falls outside and raindrops become snowflakes whispering against the windowpane—John continues to burn.

***

In the early morning, they curl up next to the Christmas tree, wrapping themselves in table linens to keep warm. 

The sun rises over the harbor, and the sky becomes billowy and pink. They gaze out, watching the snow drift down from cotton candy clouds. 

The Strand is closed to the public today, and they’ve got nowhere else to be but together. 

William suctions himself to John’s body, claiming that he produces more heat than a furnace—so he’ll have to share. John wraps the two of them tightly in their cocoon of linens until there’s not a hair’s width of distance between their skin. William thanks him. He presses the cold tip of his nose against John’s neck, and he presses his dry lips to John’s throat. They kiss inside their cocoon until their cheeks are flushed with heat and their skin is drenched in sweat. The silent room is filled with shivering sighs as their cocks grow hard, sliding luxuriously together until the two men are overwhelmed and overheated. 

***

As the morning passes, they drift in and out of sleep and kisses and heavy breaths, but they never emerge from their cocoon. Eventually, John’s empty stomach grumbles loudly enough to pull him from his slumber. William is napping beside him. John kisses the bridge of his nose, and he stirs; insisting he’s been awake the entire time due to John’s stomach "roaring like a crazed hyena." 

The food selection is scarce, so they decide upon a Bloody Mary breakfast. William almost convinces John that the drink represents all of the main food groups, until he unironically cites salt and alcohol as food groups of their own. 

It’s William’s day off, so John insists on helping prepare the drinks. He’s always wanted to make a drink behind a bar. William is hesitant, but he agrees—until John reaches for a bottle of vodka, and he leaps across the bar to intervene. 

He pulls John's hand away, his voice fraught with disapproval. “Seagram’s? Really, John? If you want to kill us both, a liter of petrol would taste better.” 

“Wow. Okay.” John carefully sets a hand on William’s shoulder and gives it a few stiff pats. “First of all—not trying to kill anyone. Secondly—I was reaching for the bottle of Belvedere.” 

William is visibly relieved, but he continues to shield the vodka shelves. “Noted,” he says thoughtfully. “Belvedere isn't a poor choice, but may I suggest the American Star?” He pulls a tall pink bottle from the shelf and twists off the cap. “It’s infused with chiles, and it goes down with a smooth, smoky flavour. Perfect for a Bloody Mary.” He dips his forefinger into the bottle and holds it to John's mouth. "Try it." 

The scent stings John’s throat before he tastes it, but he takes William by the wrist, wrapping his lips around his fingers and savoring the drink’s heat.

William looks at him expectantly. “Thoughts?”

"Hm." John playfully runs his tongue over his own bottom lip. “I’d like to try it in the cocktail before making a final decision." 

William quietly rolls his eyes, but prepares the ingredients without argument. John watches; he finds William endlessly fascinating. Whatever he does, he does with a meticulous concentration—a juxtaposition of the aloof, often socially unaware version of himself he typically presents. 

William raises a half-full shot glass to John's mouth. "Here."

John's lips part, and William tilts the glass, carefully pouring the drink into his mouth. John swallows it down, and it's exactly as delicious as he imagined it would be.

His gaze flickers to the bottle of vodka, and he wraps his fingers around William's wrist. “More of that, please.” 

William dips his forefinger slowly into the bottle, not breaking away from John's grip. John brings his hand back to his mouth, and William moans as John flicks his tongue over his fingertips. 

“Perfect.” John tangles his hands through the hair at each side of William's head, gripping tightly. “Would you like a taste?" 

Desire flashes in William’s eyes, and John pulls him in, licking into his mouth. William groans as he sucks the tip of John’s tongue and bottom lip, sharing the drink’s numbing, prickling heat. 

“Sublime," William utters, and their lips slot back together.

William slides his palms to the small of John's back, and John circles his arms over his shoulders, raising one leg to wrap around his waist. William moves his hands to the back of John’s thighs, pulling up his other leg and lifting him to sit on top of the bar. He pushes his hips into him, spreading his knees apart—and they breathe heavily together, sweeping their fingers over each other’s arms and tongues over each other’s lips.

John lays himself flat on his back, raising his hips to allow William to remove his trousers. William tosses them onto the floor, drapes John's legs over his shoulders, and immediately begins to to prepare him—spreading him open with his fingers and brushing against his prostate until he starts to beg. He unbuttons his own trousers, and they slide to the floor, but he's too caught up in the moment to kick them away. Just like that, over the bar, he buries himself into John with urgency. Just like that, trousers at his ankles, skin slapping against skin. 

***

As the clock ticks past noon, the two finally sit at a booth to drink their breakfast. Then, they drink another. They share a tipsy cigarette in the alleyway, and afterwards, William playfully shoves John into a snowbank. John swears at him affectionately, pulls himself up, and shoves a handful of snow beneath William’s shirt. William yelps at the coldness, runs back inside and rips his shirt off over his head. John declares himself the winner. 

Afterwards, he challenges William to a game of pool. William pokes fun at him for the way he holds the cue; John teases him for taking a thousand years between plays.

Two rounds and one draught beer in, their game of “pool” becomes a game of “strip pool." It's exactly like regular pool—but with less clothing.

The game ends with a draw, and with William leaning naked over the pool table, massaging his cock with the palm of his hand; and John, kneeling beneath him, massaging his arsehole with his tongue.

***

Mid-afternoon, they fill bowls with stale popcorn and settle in front of the television. William adamantly refuses to watch sports, but only half-heartedly refuses to watch _It’s a_ _Wonderful Life._ John wraps an arm around his shoulder and kisses his cheek, and he gives in, as long as John keeps touching him like that. For a bit, William seems to actually enjoy the film, but within an hour he becomes needy and bored.

He stealthily slips his fingers beneath John’s trousers. John inhales sharply as they tickle the head of his cock. “You’re insatiable,” he teases. “We’re...nnngh… about to finish. Can we...ahhhh… watch the rest of it?” 

William uses his thumb to trace soft circles around the tip’s opening, and John can't fight it—he's already hard.

“Keep watching.” William slides his hand up and down John’s length, and he doesn’t let go until John comes. 

Miraculously, they watch the movie to the end. William pretends not to cry. When John wipes a tear away as evidence, he simply grumbles that Irene ought to become better at removing dust from the shelves. 

***

The sun sets over the snow-dusted city landscape—turning the sky six shades of purple and blue.

John kisses William. “I’d like to kiss you until the stars come out,” he tells him. 

"Me, too," William says, and kisses him back.

***

At half six, William asks John to name his favourite Christmas song, and John tells him that it’s _O Holy Night._

William silently walks to the piano at the corner of the room. He sits down at the bench and begins to play. John watches the melancholy music pour from his graceful hands into the instrument, and back out again, echoing through the tiny room. Even before the first stanza is over, John is nearly moved to tears. William is nothing short of a marvel as he caresses the ivory keys, his body swaying to the music, errant curls falling over his half-closed eyelids. 

The song comes to an end. William lets the final chord ring out until it fades into silence.

John wants to say something, but he's been rendered speechless.

William turns back to him. “It’s been awhile since I’ve played that one, so I apologize if—he pauses. “It’s just that I very rarely play in front of other people—”

“You’re fantastic.” John steps towards him, taking his face in his hands. “Amazing.” He kisses his forehead. “Brilliant.” 

William visibly blushes, unable to contain the smile blossoming over his face. He wraps his arms around John’s waist and rests his head against his stomach. 

“You continue to surprise me, John,” he says quietly. 

John drifts his fingers aimlessly over his scalp. “Good. I hope that I can continue to surprise you for a very long time.” 

He immediately regrets those words as he feels William’s body go stiff against him. 

“Oh. No. William, I didn’t mean…” His hands fall lightly to William’s shoulders. “I just meant that, as long as we continue...whatever this is, I want to be sure it’s exciting for you."

William loosens his grip on him—but he doesn’t let go entirely. He leans away, his gaze falling to the ground.

That’s when John recalls last night—the sorrow in his eyes as he looked at him; the melancholy in his words as he spoke. "I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to imply anything.” 

William sighs with a deep dejection, leaning forward again to bury his face into John’s abdomen. “Actually, I’m the one who should apologize."

John frowns. “Pardon?” 

William pulls away, hands falling into his lap. “John, I owe you an apology.” 

“Why?" 

He swallows thickly before speaking—John wonders if he’s holding back tears. “When we first met, I am aware that I was quite rude..."

“Understatement. You were a complete knob. But of course I forgive you. Is that what this is all—?” 

“No.” William shakes his head. “What I mean to say is...that it was solely an act of self-preservation. The moment you sat at my bar, you crawled beneath my skin. I have never craved anything more deeply; I yearned to know what it would be like to kiss you, to touch you. And I—“ he pauses to swallow again. “I couldn’t allow it to happen.”

John grasps at his words like straws, trying to make sense of them all, but he fails.

“I tried to forget about you, but over the next few days, I thought of little else.” He presses the palm of his hand into his thigh anxiously. “I tried to keep you at arm’s length—but I couldn’t say no to you. I didn’t _want_ to say no. So I told myself that it was simple, uncomplicated. No meeting beyond these walls, but most importantly: no sentimental attachments.”

John wants his heart to slow down—but he doesn’t know where this conversation is going, or if it will leave his heart intact or shatter it to pieces. So he simply listens, hoping William will quickly get to the point.

“The raw chemistry, the passion we have—it’s unprecedented. I have never experienced anything like it. I believe we both dove into this headfirst, deliberately not thinking of the consequences. Perhaps we were convinced there wouldn't be any. But that’s no longer the case.” His lips form into a thin line, and his head falls. “I broke my own rule. And for that, I deeply apologise.” 

“William,” John says steadily. “Look at me. Whatever you need to say, it’s okay. Just say it. But I need you to be completely clear with me, alright?” 

William tilts his head upwards. His eyes are wet with tears, and he clears his throat as if he may choke on the words. “I’m afraid I have fallen quite deeply in love with you.” 

John becomes overwhelmed by the urge to kiss him, to hold and comfort him, to let him cry into his chest until his tears run dry. Instead, he takes him gently by the shoulders. “Say that again?”

"I'm in love with you, John." William’s voice trembles. "I’m so sorry. I never intended for it to happen.”

John tips William's head towards him, brushing his thumb over his cheek. "I love you, too.”

William rises from the piano bench; he sighs into John, surging forward and sealing their mouths together. John kisses him back sweetly, pouring his love out, hoping to take every ounce of sadness from his lips. But even as the kiss is broken, William tastes like tears.

John lays his head on his chest, circling his arms around his waist. “William,” he exhales. “Why are you so sad?”

William rests his head on top of John’s and sighs deeply. “There is a lot that you don’t know about me, John. That you _can’t_ know about me. And it’s not a matter of wanting—it’s a matter of life and death. I know none of this makes sense, and I’m sorry. I wish I could give you a better explanation. But I’ve simply got to ask that you trust what I’m saying. Please trust me when I say that I love you, John—and I would give you everything if I could.”

The way he speaks, the desperation in his voice—John understands nothing, but knows he’s telling the truth.

He presses his forehead to William’s. “This feels like a goodbye,” he murmurs.

William’s eyelids fall closed. “Yes.”

“Alright,” John says slowly. He expects his world to come crashing down. It doesn’t. “It’s just—the stars. They haven’t come out yet.”

William brushes their lips together. “There may be clouds hiding them from view,” he says. “...but that doesn't mean they aren't there.” 

John smiles weakly in return, slowly tucking a piece of William’s hair behind his ear.

William finally releases him completely, and John feels it deep down in his bones—like the air has been ripped from his lungs. He closely regards the man before him, searching for a sign that he’ll reconsider. And though he’s stopped crying, his face remains blanketed with a stoic sadness—and there’s no question that he’s made up his mind.

“Well.” John nods stiffly, dropping his arms to his sides. “I suppose there’s nothing left to say.”

He turns to go, awaiting a goodbye that doesn’t come. 

“John.”

John doesn’t turn or acknowledge him; he simply waits for him to speak.

“Please listen to what I say: the human heart is foolish—and sentiment may have gotten the better of us, but this is not a game. I mean it when I tell you this must end here. From the time you walk through that door, whatever your heart tells you to do in regards to me—you must ignore it. Do not succumb to the what-ifs or the fantasies of what could have been. Do not waste another second of your time thinking of me.”

John feels dizzy; he wonders if he’s stopped breathing. He doesn’t know how to feel about a single word William has just spoken—so as he turns the door handle, he takes a deep breath, and he simply feels nothing.

“Merry Christmas, William.” He opens the door and walks out into the frozen twilight, leaving love—and The Strand—behind him.

***

He wanders through the downtown area aimlessly for quite some time before he reminds himself that he ought to call a cab.

His phone buzzes, and he becomes flustered as he pulls it from his pocket. 

It’s a text from Stamford.

_Hey, Mate. Just checking up. Elizabeth’s dinner party is nearly over and I haven’t heard from you._

_Shit. I’m sorry. It completely slipped my mind. It’s been a day._

_No worries. That bad, eh? There’s a pub over by Larry’s house that’s open on Christmas. Wanna meet me there in twenty minutes?_

_Yes. God. Please._

_Alright, mate. See you soon. And Merry Christmas._

John shoves his phone into his pocket, his eyes stinging with tears. He blinks them back harshly. A refreshing winter breeze blows in, and he tilts his head back as it passes.

He notices something in the sky—a single star, peeking out stubbornly from behind dark clouds.

It shines brighter than a diamond. 


	6. To Kiss You At Midnight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He hasn’t even had William in his bed. Sure, he’s had him everywhere else: the floor. The table. The bathroom counter. The wall, the alleyway, the kitchen. And now, he’ll have him nowhere at all but his dreams.

John keeps his eyes glued to William from across the crowded bar. William wraps his blue scarf around his long, pale neck, and he walks out the back door. 

He knows that John watches every move he makes. 

There’s a thrill in not knowing whether you are the predator or the prey—will you pounce first, or will you first be pounced upon? 

William always keeps him guessing.

John wastes no time. He’s hungry, and his appetite is desperate to be sated. 

He follows the echo of footsteps through the alleyway opposite the bar, where he finds William standing in the shadows, his back against the harsh brick wall.

Even in the dark, he’s so beautiful that John aches.   
  
William wraps his heart-shaped lips around the filter of his cigarette and inhales, the tip of it glowing like a firefly. He forms a delectable “O” shape with his sinful mouth, and he exhales, flicking pieces of ash onto the pavement. 

They lock eyes. John goes in for the kill, approaching William swiftly, honing in on him, crowding against him, stopping only when their lips are so close that the two men breathe the same air.

“How much time do you have?” he asks. 

William turns his head and exhales. “However long it takes me to finish this cigarette.”

“Plenty of time.”

“Is that so?” The man holds the cigarette between his lips and breathes in.

John falls to his knees. He tugs at William’s trousers, pulling out his cock and bringing it to his lips. William shivers; John can’t tell if it’s from the frigid outdoor air or the pleasure of being in his mouth. 

He’s got no time to wonder.   
  
He swirls his tongue over the sensitive flesh, gripping the base of William’s length with one hand and stroking his testicles with the other. Pursing his lips for friction, he takes it in until it tickles the back of his throat. 

William’s head lolls back, his cigarette already half-burned and hanging loosely between his forefinger and thumb.

John is going to have to move quickly, but he’s more than confident in his abilities. As a medical student, he is well-acquainted with the human body—but his knowledge of William’s body is deeper still. He can draw out his pleasure for hours, or he can bring him to overwhelming ecstasy in the time it takes to finish a cigarette.

He briefly pulls away and coats his fingers thickly with saliva, trailing his handbeneath William’s scrotum and up behind to breach his opening. He presses in deliberately, brushing against his prostate. 

_“Fuck,"_ William gurgles lowly. His body goes stiff, and he arches his hips forwards. “Jesus.” He ruts into John’s mouth with harsh, unrestrained movements, and John continues to take him in deeper.

John massages his prostate with practiced skill as William fucks him with his mouth, and John allows it—the cigarette is three quarters burned, and they haven’t got much time.

In seconds, William becomes a sweaty, panting mess of a man. He lets out a long, guttural groan, his cock surging and pulsing as he comes, and John shows him no mercy—flicking and fingering until he wrings himself dry.

In a post-coital haze, William brings his cigarette to his lips. But John intercepts, standing and placing a hand firmly atop his. He pulls the cigarette away from him and inhales, burning it to the end and flicking it into a bed of snow. 

William watches him, slack-jawed and silent. He leans in, and they slide their ashy lips and tongues together, holding on to each other’s waists and to every second they have.

John pulls away with a sharp inhale, bids him farewell, and returns to the bar to finish his Old Fashioned.

***

John’s eyes fly open. Light pours in. He groans and his head throbs. His fingers drift over the uncomfortably large bulge in his pants.

It’s far from the first time he’s woken up rock-hard and drenched in sweat after dreaming of William—but it’s the first time since they ended things. 

He doesn’t remember how he found his way to his bedroom after a night of heavy drinking, but he’s thankful he’s alone—occasionally, after drowning his sorrows with liquor, he’ll wake up in his bed with a pretty stranger.

He hasn’t even had William in his bed. Sure, he’s had him everywhere else: the floor. The table. The bathroom counter. The wall, the alleyway, the kitchen. And now, he’ll have him nowhere at all but his dreams.

He closes his eyes, tries to ignore his erection, and forces himself to go back to sleep.

***

There’s one night every year that humans always remember: the night the calendar flips. So if you’re home alone on New Year's Eve, crying over a beautiful dickhead who broke your heart, you will wear that for the rest of your life like a bad tattoo.

John refuses to let that happen.

***

Sometimes, John visits Molly’s Instagram. And it’s not because he hopes to see a picture or two of William; he truly enjoys multiple daily pictures of food and K-pop stars and cats. 

So he checks in every few hours or so. For the cats and K-pop stars, of course. And if William happens to pop up on her photo feed, John can’t do much about that, now, can he?

It doesn’t matter. William isn’t Molly’s problem. He’s not John’s problem, either. Not anymore.

***

The days between Christmas and New Year’s don’t actually exist. Well, technically they do—but they’re really one nebulous lump of time that nobody actually keeps track of. 

During one of those days, John and Stamford are at the table in their apartment eating breakfast. John asks Stamford about his plans for New Years Eve, and Stamford grows visibly uncomfortable. Apparently, Elizabeth’s best friend is throwing a party at her house. 

Marci. The one who stormed out of The Strand after William viciously insulted her, and John simply stood there and allowed it to happen. 

He assumes, quite correctly, that he has not been invited. 

***

John actually knows nothing about William.

He doesn’t know where he’s from. If he has a husband or a dog or a child or maybe even a wife. Whether he has any passions, or simply tends the bar all night so he can study all day. Doesn’t know his phone number, or his address, or his astrological sign. He doesn’t even know his surname.

How is it possible to love someone and know nothing about them?

***

John actually knows everything he needs to know about William. 

He knows the scent of his cologne, and the scent of his hair, and the scent of his skin. He knows the sound his heart makes as it beats beneath his rib cage. He knows the way his forehead crinkles when John says something he finds repugnant, and he knows the shape of his pupils when John is about to kiss him. 

He tries to work it out—why William had to leave his life so abruptly. He goes through a million scenarios in his head, and comes up with nothing.

But he does know this: William’s eyes are hundreds of different shades of green and blue and gold, and John has memorized them all. 

***

On another of those nameless days en route to New Years, John drinks. He drinks until he’s convinced himself that calling The Strand at midnight is a fantastic idea.

The phone rings and goes directly to voicemail, and in his message, John pours out his entire, whisky-drenched heart: 

_“Yeah, hi. Listen, I just need you to know one thing. This is John, but the way. Shit, I should have led with that. Let me start over—this message is for William. I’m John. Sorry to bother you. It’s just that...I would give anything to be able to kiss you on New Year’s Eve. And... I'm realising how pathetic I sound, so I’m going to hang up now. But you can call me. If you want. My phone number is… fuck, what is my fucking phone number? Sorry, I recently got a new phone and… Oh, look at your caller ID. You can just… look at that. And call that number. Anyway, if I don’t hear from you, I’ll assume that my phone number didn’t show up, or that you want me to leave you the hell alone. Either way, Happy New Year. But I hope you will. Call me, that is. I miss—”_

The tone abruptly cuts him off. " _—_ You. Oh, god."

He smashes a bunch of random numbers on the keypad, hoping his message will get deleted, and he slams his phone down. It doesn’t work, but that's fine. He doesn’t even remember leaving it until weeks later. 

***

John receives about a half dozen text messages on the day of New Year’s Eve. Two from his sister, one from Mike, a flashy one in Mandarin, one wrong number. 

And one is from Sarah, his ex. 

_Hey, you. I was just packing up my Christmas decorations and found that ridiculous gingerbread ornament you got me last year. Got me missing you a bit. Hope you’re well. -Sarah_

John reads the message five times. Surprisingly, he doesn’t feel annoyed or anxious or angry. Actually, he feels nothing.

He wonders if he ought to ignore her. He probably would—if he weren’t so desperately longing for a distraction.

_I figured you’d have thrown that into the rubbish by now. -JW_

_Haha. Nope. He’s seen better days, but for now, he’s been carefully tucked away :). -Sarah_

John smiles as he types his response. 

_Fingers crossed that he lives to see another Christmas. -JW_

_Yep! Fingers crossed. God knows I barely survived mine. Ended up in the ER, actually. But they had candy canes there, so at least it was...festive? -Sarah_

_Hope it wasn’t anything serious. -JW_

_Could have been much worse! Gabriela was there with me, so it was bearable. -Sarah_

_Good that you had someone there with you. -JW_

_Yeah. She’s the best. Don’t know what I’d do without her. -Sarah_

John envisions Sarah’s next door neighbor, Gabriela, and he allows his mind to wander. There was a time he may have fancied her bit, and he’s certainly not the only one. With her wavy chestnut hair that cascades down her back, her silky olive skin, and her long, long legs—she turns the heads of men and women wherever she goes.

_I know you’re probably wondering why I’ve messaged you out of the blue. Basically, I want to apologize for the way I treated you. I was a fucking mess for awhile, and lately, I realized I’ve been pushing away people who are very dear to me. Including you. So, I’m sorry. -Sarah_

_No worries. Glad you’re doing better now. -JW_

_Thank you. I really have missed you like crazy. -Sarah_

John supposes it’s nice to be missed—and this conversation they’re having causes him to realize he misses her as well. They’ve been classmates at Harvard for the past three years, and they were friends long before they began dating. 

He’s got no idea if Sarah’s motives are genuine, but at this point, he doesn’t really care. He wants to stop being lonely. He wants to stop thinking about William.

_I miss you, too. -JW_

_I hope I’m not being too forward, but Gab and I are putting together a New Years Eve get together at my place. I’m sure you’ve got plans, but you’re welcome to come by. -Sarah_

_Actually, the plans I had sort of fell through, so I could do that. -JW_

_Perfect! It starts at 8. See you tonight. x -Sarah_

_Alright. See you tonight. -JW_

_:) -Sarah_

John tries to convince himself he’s lucked out. That he won’t be alone tonight after all—so he should be happy. But this does nothing to soothe the tightness in his chest, or the knots in his stomach, or the stinging grief of knowing where he will not be.

***

John pulls out his skin-tight dark denim trousers, a soft burgundy jumper, and brown leather boots. He teases his hair a bit, applies a whisper of black eyeliner, and spritzes on his second most expensive cologne. 

Who knows what tonight will bring, after all? Is it possible that he’ll find comfort in the familiar: a few drinks and Sarah’s bed? He never really felt a spark with her, but perhaps it’s safer that way. Because a spark, he’s learned, can burn an entire house down. 

Or perhaps he’ll just find a sexy man, throw caution to the wind, and he’ll drink and kiss and fuck until William fades from his memory. 

Or maybe he’ll just return home alone _—_ the most familiar option of all.

He arrives at Sarah’s apartment at half past nine. The party is well underway. The place smells of sweat and vapes and cheap beer, and downtempo music booms from speakers. People at various levels of intoxication laugh and snog and murmur in the dim light.

Sarah greets him at the door with a warm smile and a soft kiss on the cheek. “John,” she says, embracing him tightly. “It’s so great to see you. You look fantastic.” 

She pulls back to look at him, her thick eyelashes as dark as the black polish on her nails. Her hair is swept to one side in a loose ponytail, and her smile sparkles like the silver hoops dangling from her ears. Her strapless dress is elegant and sensual, hugging her waist and hips, and she unconsciously smooths it down to keep it from creeping up her thighs. 

John’s eyes settle on her shimmering pink lips, and he briefly wonders what would happen if he were to kiss her. 

His thoughts are interrupted when Gabriela—in six-inch stiletto boots and a cropped tie-front blouse—approaches them.

“John!” She bends down to kiss him on the cheek, letting her lips linger for a moment. “Come in. I’ll take this,” she says, gripping at his coat and sliding it off his arms as Sarah guides him to the sofa.

Gabriela saunters off to the kitchen to make him a drink, her wavy hair cascading down her shoulders. Her tight shirt barely contains her curves, and her skirt is slung just below her bare hips, right at the dimples of her back.

John averts his eyes, trying not to stare at her like a creep. But he notices dozens of other pairs of eyes on her—including Sarah's—so he doesn't feel _quite_ so bad. 

He elbows Sarah lightly in the side. “Might want to take a picture instead,” he teases.

Sarah pulls her attention back to him. “I don’t need to."

John shrugs. “Lucky you.”

"Sit down,” Sarah commands, playfully shoving him down onto the sofa. “You and I have got some catching up to do.” 

“Erm, yeah,” John says, slumping down onto the sofa dramatically. “Like...when did you become such a brat?” 

“Hush,” she says. "When did you become so grumpy?” She can’t contain the grin on her face. “Oh, wait. You’ve always been that way.”

“Shut up.” 

“Nope.”

The two of them continue to squabble flirtatiously, and John decides to lean into it.

But he could really use a drink.

His prayers are immediately answered when Gabriela returns. She hands John a glass, squeezes in next to Sarah, and sets her hand on top of Sarah’s leg.

She begins to massage her upper thigh, stopping just below the hem of her very short dress.

John takes a sip of his drink. 

Gabriela smiles at him, wide-eyed, before leaning across Sarah to ruffle his hair. “You know, John," she says, "...you’re even more handsome than I remember.” 

He can feel himself blushing.

Sarah groans with embarrassment. “Gab, do you really have to flirt with my ex?” 

“Aw.” Gabriela leans forward and kisses Sarah on her forehead. “You’re adorable when you’re jealous.”

“Not jealous,” Sarah protests, and she reaches up to weave her fingers through Gabriela's hair. 

Gabriela presses their foreheads together. “Good. Because you don’t need to be.”

Sarah hums happily, brushing the side of Gabriela's face with her fingers, and two of them begin to kiss. Not in a friendly way, either. 

The kiss is wet and deep and heated, and they breathe into it heavily as Gabriela's hands roam beneath the hem of Sarah’s skirt.

John watches, a little bit confused. A tiny bit uncomfortable. Definitely a lot turned on.

He clears his throat and takes another large swig of his drink. 

Sarah pushes Gabriela away, and the two of them look over at John bashfully, dissolving into a fit of giggles.

“Oh my god,” Gabriela says. “I’m sorry, John. I’m really...affectionate when I’m drunk.”

“John," Sarah says, wiping her mouth. "Gabriela and I—"

"We’re in loooooove,” Gabriela interrupts, slipping her hand further between Sarah’s legs. 

Sarah turns away. "Not the time," she says, her voice amused. 

Gabriela pouts. 

John takes another drink. Yeah, he’ll be going home alone tonight.

“That’s lovely,” he says.

“I’m sorry, John.” Sarah is now visibly embarrassed. “Oh, I’m a complete jerk—I should have mentioned something before you came here.”

“It's not—” John shakes his head. “It’s just, lately I've had—” he inhales. 

No. He’s not going to talk about William. He smiles. “I think I’m just a little intoxicated, that’s all.” He gestures towards the two of them. “So tell me. How did it all happen?” 

Sarah begins to speak, but as she does, a low bass note booms from the speakers, and John hears none of the words coming from her mouth. 

She holds up her forefinger, signaling for him to wait, and she whispers something in Gabriela’s ear. Gabriela nods, reaches over her, and takes John by the hand.

As he stands, the alcohol overtakes him—he feels warm and peaceful and carefree. And best of all, his heart has almost stopped aching.

Sarah takes his other hand, and John happily follows as the two women lead him out of Sarah’s crowded apartment.

*** 

They take John next door—to Gabriela's much quieter place—so they can continue their conversation. 

The girls sprawl out onto a leather sofa, and John sinks down into a large armchair across from them.

They talk casually for a bit, laughing and having fun, but they never approach any subject of importance.

Another drink appears in John’s hand, and then another. At some point, the conversation dies down. 

And at some point soon after, Gabriela's got her legs wrapped around Sarah’s waist, pinning her to the sofa, and their tongues and hips slide together as John watches, his hand resting over the zip of his trousers.

The two women kiss for a long time, and John simply enjoys watching from his place on the chair. 

Finally, a song comes on that Gabriela loves, and she jumps up, inviting Sarah to dance with her. 

Sarah spins her forwards, wrapping her arms around her waist from behind. As they sway together, Sarah dips her head to softly kiss her neck. Gabriela rolls her hips luxuriously as Sarah glides her fingers over her abdomen, her strokes becoming wider until she’s massaging Gabriela's breasts through her blouse.

Gabriela lifts her arms and laces her fingers together behind her head, giving Sarah free reign of her body. She takes note, massaging her chest through her shirt, flicking and squeezing and twisting her nipples until they grow visibly hard. 

Gabriela writhes and moans at her touch, and Sarah's fingertips eventually work their way down the front of her top. She massages her breasts wantonly until they pour out of her clothes, her nipples dark and round and hard as Sarah continues to tease them. 

John inserts his hands beneath his pants, tentatively flicking his thumb over the head of his cock. 

Gabriela turns her head and seals their lips together for a messy, open-mouthed kiss, and she spins her body to Sarah’s to embrace her. Her hand returns to Sarah’s upper thigh, and she slides her fingertips under her skirt. She hikes it up over her bum, revealing that Sarah isn’t wearing underwear. 

John’s cock twitches, and he wraps his fingers around it, stroking slowly.

The two women’s hips grind together in a dirty dance. Gabriela massages and squeezes Sarah’s naked arse, nearly obsessively. She pulls Sarah's dress up over her head, and her pink, hard nipples pop out, revealing that she's not wearing a bra, either.

Gabriela wastes no time, wrapping her lips around one nipple while rubbing the other with her fingers. She slides her tongue wetly over Sarah’s chest, back and forth between her two nipples, and John’s strokes become steadier.

Sarah slides her nails over Gabriela's scalp, and she tugs lightly, signaling for her to stand. Sarah pulls her in, their naked breasts and bellies sliding together as they continue to dance to the music. 

Sarah walks her backwards until they reach the wall. She pins her against it, moving a hand to the back of Gabriela's thigh.

Gabriela raises it, wrapping it around Sarah, and Sarah slides her hand in between her legs. She rubs vigorously at Gabriela’s clit over the crotch of her lace underwear until it becomes soaked with her arousal. Then, she glides her fingers underneath, sliding them in and out of her wetness.

Gabriela begs for Sarah’s tongue, and John slows down his strokes, taking a deep breath. If he’s not careful, he’ll come before they do.

Gabriela drops her skirt and underwear down to her ankles and leans backwards into the wall. Sarah falls to her knees, pulling Gabriela's hips forwards and her knees apart before burying her face into her wet opening. Gabriela tosses her head back, sliding her hands up to her own chest, pinching her nipples as Sarah licks and sucks and tastes her. 

John’s forehead is sweating, and his cock is hard and twitching in his hand. 

Sarah’s tongue thrusts and swirls into Gabriela as she pants and gasps her way to orgasm. After she rides out her pulsating body, the two of them stand. Sarah takes Gabriela's face into her hands and kisses her, and they slide their tongues together, sharing and savouring Gabriela's sweet taste.

As they kiss, Gabriela softly guides her back towards the sofa. Sarah obediently sinks down, rests backwards onto her elbows, and spreads her legs open, showing off her perfect pink wetness. 

John can't wait to watch Gabriela kneel down and take Sarah apart with her mouth. He licks his lips in anticipation. 

But instead, Gabriela turns to face him. He feels like a voyeur being caught—but strangely, that does nothing to hinder his arousal. 

She walks over towards him, her body naked and glistening with sweat. Her eyes fall to the hardness below his waist, and she smiles with satisfaction.

“Enjoying the show, love?” she purrs. 

“Erm, yes.” He squeezes his cock and bites his bottom lip. “Quite.”

She crouches down in front of him, reaches across his lap, and sets her hand over the one he’s got wrapped around his cock. 

She looks up at him through her dark, heavy lashes. "I want you to fuck me, John." 

John's heart thumps. “Yeah?” he says, a bit roughly.

She squeezes his hand. “Sarah says you can, as long as she’s allowed to watch.” She lets go of his hand. “It’s ultimately up to you, though." She stands. "I’m going to return to the sofa, get on my hands and knees, and eat out my girlfriend. You can stay here and watch for as long as you’d like; or you can join me on the floor and watch us while you fuck me from behind."

John moans lowly.

Gabriela turns and walks back to Sarah. They smile at one another, and she sinks to the ground, spreads Sarah open, and fucks her with her tongue.

John watches. His cock is so hard it _hurts_. William’s name echoes in John’s mind, but he pushes it away. 

He’s been offered the chance to make this night _truly_ unforgettable. A New Year’s Eve threesome with two gorgeous women? That’s a tattoo he’d gladly wear.

His cock leaks, swells, and it craves warmth and wetness. 

He’s got to move on, hasn’t he? 

So he rises to his feet, pulls off his clothes, and walks across the room.

Gabriela's face is buried into Sarah hungrily, and even as John drops to his knees behind her, they can't be pulled from their own world. He finds it insanely arousing—the two of them, so in love with one another that nothing can break into their cloud of joyous lust. 

He knows that feeling well.

He places a hand on Gabriela's hip, taking his cock into the other one.

New year, new sexual endeavours. 

But before he begins, he takes a moment to brace himself. He closes his eyes and breathes. He listens.

The two women moan and sigh together, and Sarah murmurs sweetly to Gabriela that she loves her more than anything in the universe. 

It’s a simple, innocuous act between two lovers, and it's likely happened dozens of times, but it digs hard into John.

“Fuck.” His eyes fly open and he stumbles backwards. 

He can’t do this. He doesn’t want to.

He wants William. He loves William. Only William. And it doesn’t matter what’s going on in William’s life—John will continue to want only him. 

He’s got to find him. He's got to tell him. 

The two women turn their heads towards John in a confused haze, but when they see the panicked look on his face, they immediately snap out of it.

“Oh my god, John.” Sarah sits up on the sofa. “Are you okay?”

"I—I can’t,” he stammers. “I’m sorry.”

"John. Sweetheart," Gabriela says, pulling herself up from the floor. "It's okay. It’s fine.”

“We didn’t mean to—“ Sarah begins. “We thought you were having fun.”

“I really was." John shakes his head. “I’m sorry. Let me explain.”

Gabriela sets a hand on his shoulder. “Sit down, love. Take a moment to breathe. When you’re ready, if you want, we can talk about it.”

John smiles at her. “Thank you.”

After he takes a moment to collect himself, Sarah appears besides him, handing him a blanket and a glass of water. 

He gratefully accepts, wrapping himself up and downing half the glass in one gulp. “What time is it?” he asks. 

“About a quarter past eleven,” Gabriela responds. She takes his hand, and until then, he doesn't even realise he's shaking. 

“How can we help you, love?" Sarah asks. 

John sighs heavily. "I know this is sudden, but...I need to get downtown before midnight. There’s someone I've got to see.”

The two women glance at one another, and they seem to have an entire conversation without using any words. 

“Where exactly do you need to go?” Sarah asks.

John clears his throat. “I’m not entirely sure, but I’m guessing he’ll be at The Strand.”

Sarah nods. “I’ve got a car. I can take you. It shouldn’t be much more than a half hour in traffic.”

John halfway expects her to be joking. “I can’t ask you to leave your own party. I can just... get an Uber.”

“You’ll never get an Uber at this time on New Year’s Eve,” Sarah says. “Gabriela will stay here and keep the party going.” She stands. “Now are you in, Watson, or are you going to keep arguing and wasting valuable time?”

She's right. If he wants to see William before midnight, he has no other choice. “I’m in.”

“Good." Sarah bends down to collect her clothing from the floor. 

Gabriela tosses John’s trousers at him, and he quickly begins to get dressed. “Wait, Sarah—“ he pauses. “Haven’t you been drinking?”

“Not since the concussion,” she replies, pulling her dress over her head.

He puts on his shirt. “You have a concussion?” 

Sarah smiles, handing him his socks and shoes. “We’ll talk in the car.”

Gabriela hugs him tightly before they go. “Good luck,” she says.

“I—can’t thank you two enough," John says. "After I quite literally ruined your lovemaking session—“

Gabriela and Sarah burst into laughter. 

“—Here you are,” he continues. “Helping me. No questions asked.”

Gabriela pulls away and smiles. “We had fun tonight.”

“We’re your friends, John,” Sarah adds. “We’re happy to help you. I think you’d do the same for us.”

Gabriela nods in agreement. “And once you’ve collected your beautiful man—“ she says with a mischievous smile—“you bring him back here, and we can all have fun together.” 

Sarah sighs. “Oh my god, Gab. There’s a time and a place, and this is not—“

“I’m kidding.” Gabriela winks. 

She’s probably not.

***

John and Sarah get into her car and drive away, and John seriously questions his sanity. 

He has absolutely no plan, but he knows he’s got to see William. He's got to try. He can’t give up, not without one final chance to be with the man he loves.

And if the stars align, perhaps he'll get to kiss him at midnight. 


	7. I O U

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Oh," John breathes, lifting his hands to the sides of William's face. "Hello. I thought I'd lost you."

_11:27 pm._

Ignition startup, engine on, blast of the heat. Reverse, turn the wheel, drive. Silence, small talk, stereo on. Street sign, stop sign, tick-tick-tick of the turn signal.

_11:28._

John sweats, although the temperature outside is well below freezing. His head spins, although by now he’s mostly sober. He takes deep breaths, although his chest feels impossibly tight. 

His imagination takes him through every imaginable scenario this night could bring—good, bad, better, worse—but it doesn’t really matter, as long as he can see William just one more time. 

_11:29._

Sarah asks John how he’s feeling, and John replies that he could probably use a bit of a distraction. 

She reaches towards the stereo. “Different music?”

“No.” John’s thoughts are too intrusive to be deterred by the abstract. “Actually, the doctor in me is dying to know how you got that concussion. Should you even be driving?”

“It’s really a minor one,” she replies. “I used to get them all the time playing basketball. No biggie.”

Sarah has always been tough as nails, going out of her way to appear alright in any given scenario. He’s 90% certain she’s downplaying the severity of her injury, but he’s also 200% certain that there’s no way he’ll change her mind.

She goes on to warn him that her story isn’t particularly a happy one, and asks if he’s sure he wants to hear it. John’s hands are shaking from nerves and his mouth is dry, but he’s sure. 

Sarah turns the music down, and the next few minutes are filled with the details of the past few months of her life. 

“Remember how my mother fell ill last year?” she asks. 

“Yes.” 

“Around May, the doctors told us it looked rather grim. The only option was to try out some more experimental procedures.” 

John nods. He knows about some of these emerging types of therapy, but he also knows how costly they are. And he knows the way the American healthcare system works—and why Sarah took a second job waiting tables.

“One evening at the restaurant,” Sarah continues, “I served a charming man in a business suit who took a liking to me instantly. He spent fifty dollars on his meal and tipped me two hundred. I was flattered, but chalked it up to luck—until he visited my section a week later, and the week after that, and the week after that. Each time, his bill amounted to the same, but each time, he tipped me the same two hundred dollars.” 

Sarah fidgets at the steering wheel, tapping her leg nervously. “After my shift ended one night, I bought him a drink at the bar to thank him. His name was Nicholas. We chatted a bit; he was incredibly charming, and as I’d suspected, incredibly wealthy. I don’t remember how we got onto the topic of my mother, but he expressed his sympathy towards the situation. As he was leaving, he hugged me, gave me his business card, and told me that he’d like to talk soon about helping her.”

“Wow. That’s…” John pauses, choosing his words carefully. “Did you think he was telling the truth?”

“He seemed genuine.” Sarah’s response is controlled, although her voice wavers. “He didn’t ask me for anything in return, at first, other than my time. But...there was a part of me that knew it was too good to be true. A bigger part of me, though, wanted to believe in an act so selfless and kind. Especially when it seemed to be the only hope for my mother. So I began to spend more and more time with him at the restaurant. I would come in before my shifts and stay after. And I would send my mom all the money he gave me.”

The car slows as they approach traffic. 

”I was never aware of how serious the situation with your mother became,” John says. 

“I should have been more open with you,” she says. “But I was a bit ashamed of it all, and...I eventually became swept up in this fantasy life. A Cinderella story, or something like that. I fell for him pretty hard.”

“Sarah,” John says softly. It’s not admonishing; it’s simply an acknowledgement of support. 

“It was like I became two different people. I would study and go to classes and see you when I could—and I’d spend evenings at the restaurant, then with Nicholas. I was in deep. I gave him as much of my time as I possibly could. But eventually, he demanded more and more of it.”

John never mentioned the time he saw Sarah at The Strand with the mysterious man, and he hadn’t intended to. But now that she’s opened up, he feels he probably ought to as well. “I don’t really know how to tell you this, but..." he shifts in his seat. "I’m fairly sure I saw you at The Strand with this bloke—nice suit, dark hair? Arm around your shoulder, whispering in your ear—”

“Yeah,” Sarah says. “I saw you there, as well.” 

“You did?” John never even considered the possibility, though he was admittedly a bit distracted by the pretty dickhead behind the bar that night. 

Sarah nods. “When I saw you... I was shocked at how immediately afraid I became. Afraid of what Nicholas might do to you. More than I was ashamed of you seeing me, I was afraid of _him._ And that’s when I knew something wasn’t right.” She sighs. “I got out of there as soon as I could without starting a scene.”

John clenches his fist. “If he had tried anything, I would have beat his face in—”

Sarah stifles a laugh. “I _absolutely_ believe that you could take him. But...he’s a powerful man in the industry. I’d seen the way he dealt with people he felt wronged by, and...he made their lives hell. I didn’t want to risk it.” 

“So...” John begins. “The next day, when I ended things between us—?” 

“You saved me the pain of having to do it myself,” she finishes. “And you owed me absolutely nothing, but I can’t tell you how much of a relief it was.” 

Although John is no longer overcome with anxiety over William, he’s a bit coursing with hatred towards this man. He’s not sure that it’s much better. 

“Did you continue to see him after that?” he asks. 

“Only for a few days.” Sarah taps her fingers on the steering wheel. “I think I was just...blindsided by my feelings for him. But things quickly started to get worse. He would get angry with me for little things. On the night before Christmas Eve, he drank too much. Told me that without him, I’d be miserable, and my mom would never get better. I immediately went home after that, and broke it off with him the next morning. He seemed...oddly fine with it.”

“That’s good, I suppose?”

“I thought so, too. But that evening, Gabriela and I returned home after dinner with friends, and he was waiting on the steps of our apartment building. He was clearly drunk. He told me he missed me, wanted me to come back, tried to wrap his arms around me and kiss me.”

John braces himself. “If he hurt you—“

“No.” Sarah grins. “Gabriela pulled out her pepper spray. While he was reeling from that, she kicked him in the nuts with her six inch heels. I punched him in the face hard enough to knock him unconscious. Some other residents heard the commotion and called for the police to come, but Gab and I were able to subdue him in the meantime.”

John’s jaw drops. “Holy shit.”

Sarah’s grins widens. “That self-defense class we took really paid off.”

”Apparently. So then what?”

“Cops came. Turns out he was already being investigated for a load of other white collar bullshit. So they took him away. As they were driving off, my clumsy ass slipped on the stairs, and I hit my head.”

“So let me make sure I’m understanding this correctly,” John says. “Your psycho ex shows and tries to stir shit up with you. But you and Gabriela fight back like some sort of vigilante girl gang. And once it's all over with, in a completely unrelated move, you fall on your arse and end up in hospital.”

Sarah bursts into laughter. “I mean, technically, I fell on my head, so that’s only partially true. Anyway, Gabriela took me to the ER, stayed with me, and took me home the next morning. She put me to bed, and I woke up in her arms, and I haven’t really left her side since.” 

John knows that it’s silly to be a tiny bit saddened by Sarah’s happy ending with Gabriela, and he wants to kick his own arse. But now, he can’t stop thinking about what it had felt like to wake up in William’s arms. 

“And your mum?” he asks.

”Living her life one day at a time.” Sarah shrugs. “I suppose that’s all we can ask for.”

***

_11:55._

Sarah and John enter the lot adjacent to The Strand. There are no open spots, so Sarah pulls in next to another parked car and switches on her hazards. 

“John…” She turns to him and takes his hand. “Whoever it is that you’re fighting for...they sure as hell better be fighting for you just as hard. Because anyone who doesn’t...well, they’re a complete fucking fool.” 

John smiles, wraps his arms around her shoulders and thanks her again. He hugs her for nearly a full minute. It’s fine—he’s got a minute to spare.

At 11:56, he says goodbye to her and leaps from her car, his feet hitting the pavement.

John runs.

The alleyways are filled with people crowded around the bars, but he pushes through them, breathing in the icy air until he’s sure his lungs will explode. He’s terrified and ecstatic and wants to scream loudly for a half dozen reasons, but he tries to focus on the end goal: taking William into his arms. Brushing his fingers through his curls. Telling him he loves him, and that his love isn’t going to fade. Kissing him, if he’ll allow it. 

John’s heart rate is so elevated as he approaches the door of The Strand that he’s convinced he’s going into cardiac arrest. But he takes a deep breath, thinks of William’s soft lips, and pulls at the door handle. 

It doesn’t budge. He pulls again. Nothing. He pulls and pulls and rattles it, but it’s stuck. 

“It’s closed, dude. Check out the sign," a man calls out from behind him, and John doesn’t actually turn to see who he is, but John hates him. He recites a string of words, most of which begin with the letter “F,” and he notices the sign on the window next to him. He reads it, and there’s a thousand-pound weight in his stomach. 

_The Strand has closed.  
_ _This location will reopen in June under new management._

John’s lungs are actually probably imploding now, and he really needs to sit down, because his knees have gone weak. But he doesn’t. Instead, he breathes in more cold air and hears himself calling out William’s name. Feels his legs carrying him down the alleyway behind the building. Feels his hands, banging and pulling on the back door. 

The crowd’s murmuring grows louder and more excited.

It’s 11:59, and William’s not here. 

Sarah calls John’s name from the crowd. She shoves her way towards him, and once she’s next to him, she takes his head into her hands. 

Ten seconds until midnight. 

“What happened?” she asks.

“He’s gone,” John mutters. “The bar is closed. Indefinitely. And I don’t know how to reach him.” 

Sarah sighs. “I’m so sorry, love.” 

Midnight. The sounds of fireworks and _Auld Lang Syne_ fill the air. 

Sarah pulls John in and kisses the top of his head. “I know it isn’t exactly what you’d hoped for, but…Happy New Year, John.” 

John says nothing. But when she opens her arms to offer an embrace, he pulls her in immediately. They stand there, silent, until the crowd begins to die down. 

***

John forgets that it’s cold outside until Sarah’s teeth begin to chatter. 

“Oh my god,” he says apologetically. “It’s freezing. Let’s go.”

Sarah tries to argue, but she isn’t very convincing. So instead, she offers John her guest room for the night. And although he wants to be alone now, he doesn’t know if he has the energy to deal with public transportation.

As they pull from their embrace, Sarah’s eyes fall to something directly behind him. Her smile fades, and her eyes grow wide, leaving her expression somewhere between fascinated and unsettled.

“Hm.” She tilts her head to one side. “I didn’t notice _that_ before.” 

“Notice what?” John turns to face the wall behind him. “Oh, shit." 

Over the back door of The Strand are three enormous letters. They're sprayed on in dark red paint, dripping down the wood like blood. The first letter—an _I—_ looms just below the door frame, and takes up nearly a third of the door’s height. Beneath is the letter _O_ , just as large and menacing; and beneath that, _U_. 

“I O U." John touches the door curiously; running his fingers over the letters. “The paint is dry,” he remarks. “But I'm absolutely certain this wasn’t here a week ago.” 

“God." Sarah curiously sets her hand over the letters. "I don’t know, but I’m beginning to feel pretty weirded out. We should probably go."

John reaches into his coat pocket. “Just one moment.” He quickly pulls his phone out and snaps a few photos of the door. “This could be a clue." 

“A clue?” Sarah teases. "What are you, like, a detective now?"

“No.” John drops his phone back into his pocket. “I just wish I knew what happened to William." 

Sarah takes him by the arm. “I know,” she says. “It’s alright. Whatever you need to do is fine. But even detectives need sleep." 

They return to Sarah’s car, which, by the grace of god, has not been ticketed or towed. Sarah turns the stereo back on, and John makes her promise not to play any love songs. 

Once he returns to Sarah’s, he collapses into the guest bed and sleeps before his head hits the pillow. 

All night, he dreams of William. 

***

It’s dark. John sees nothing. But he feels delicate fingers, tight with urgency, around his arms. 

“John? John, are you alright?”

Dim light. Blue walls and floors, spotted with blue squares like a Monet. The overpowering scent of chlorine and water. 

“John. Speak to me.” William’s voice cracks with emotion.

John stares at him. He looks different, somehow. The lines of his furrowed brow—which John has come to adore—have deepened. His hair is slightly thinner, though every bit as beautiful and unkempt, and is matted against his forehead with sweat. The corners of his eyelids are brushed with barely-there crow’s feet, and his eyes are still every last colour that John has memorised.

"Oh," John breathes, lifting his hands to the sides of William's face. "Hello. I thought I'd lost you." He caresses William’s cheekbones with his thumbs, and at first, William leans into John's touch, appearing overcome with relief. Seconds later, though, his face twists with confusion.

“John.” He whispers carefully, as if the moment might break. 

“Yeah?”

“I’m...simply trying to figure out why you seem suddenly...different, somehow. Did you hit your head?”

John chuckles at William's adorably befuddled expression. “No, you idiot." He pulls William's head towards him. "I’ve just missed you. That’s all," he says, brushing their lips together.

William’s breath hitches. His body becomes tense, but just as quickly, he relaxes into the kiss with a deep, deep sigh. He allows his mouth to fall open as John’s tongue sweeps in. With another heavy breath and a surge of electricity, he wraps his arms around John’s body, scoops John up into him, holds and kisses John with all he has left in him.

He kisses John as though it’s the very first time; as though he's been stuck with the want of it for far too long. As if this single kiss carries the weight of ten thousand; as if it has no beginning or end. 

But eventually, it does. And when they break the kiss for air, William looks at John, and John gets the feeling they’ve been looking at one another for longer than he knows. 

William’s cheeks are flushed, and his chest rises and falls with short, accelerated breaths. “You were only gone for a couple of hours." He narrows his eyes. 

“Was I?” John brushes a curl from William's forehead. “Felt much longer.” 

William blinks at him a few times, letting his hands drift to John’s hips. “I must confess...I know exactly what you mean. Earlier, when you appeared...I thought I was going to lose you, as well.” 

“Never,” John says, and that is a promise.

William’s face softens, and he bites lightly at his bottom lip. “I suppose I owe you a debt of gratitude for attempting to save my life earlier.” 

John wants to ask William what he means, but William has already taken his mouth away from him, pulling him in for another breathless, passionate kiss. 

“I don’t actually mind if people talk,” William whispers against John’s lips as his fingers slide into John's belt loops.

"Talk about what?" John asks with a roll of his hips.

William fumbles with John's trouser buttons. “Removing your clothes, in a darkened swimming pool.” He tugs them apart. “May I?”

John’s enthusiastic moan is all the answer he needs. 

***

“John, we must hurry,” William urges. “The queen will arrive soon."

William is sprawled back over the arm of a large velvet sofa, wearing nothing but a white sheet crumpled over his chest. John is kneeling, his head buried between William’s spread-open legs, and William has one hand at the back of his head, coaxing him. 

John’s got questions, but the desire to consume William overtakes him completely. He thrusts his tongue into him, thrashes and sucks and licks until William's arsehole is wet and pink and throbbing, but he doesn’t stop to come up for air—he doesn’t need to. This is only a dream, after all, and breathing is boring. 

William’s low, breathless noises are mostly unintelligible, but he very clearly moans that he wants John inside him. So John rises to his knees and aligns his hard, leaking cock with William’s opening. William shivers at the slightest touch, and John teases him, trailing the tip of his cock around the tight ring of skin.

William swears at John for torturing him, so John roughly pushes his cock in—but only the very tip. He stills himself for a moment and then pulls himself back out. He drags the cool, silky tip of his cock underneath William’s entrance, above it, around it. Ruts against it until William nearly sobs with desire, begging for John to fuck him. 

John trickles another slow half-circle, and, without warning, thrusts himself in as deeply as he can. William cries out, biting his bottom lip hard enough to make it bleed.

John pulls back halfway and then surges forwards further. It isn’t long before he loses himself, William’s low growls and whimpers driving him mad. He slams into William with a fast, hard rhythm, their noises of pleasure mingling over the sound of flesh against flesh.

The sofa creaks beneath them as though it may break, but that’s of no concern to them at the moment. 

William sets his hand on the tip of his own cock, so wet that he’s able to lather himself with his own lubricant. He takes it into the palm of his hand and he fucks it slowly, his face twisting with pleasure as John watches on in awe. 

John pushes into him faster and deeper, and the speed and roughness William’s strokes begin to match his thrusts. 

“God, god, god, John,” William chants over and over as he begins to erupt into his own hand. A pulsing wave seems to shoot through his entire body. It begins near the leaping pulse point at his neck, flows through his chest, his trembling abdomen, all the way down to his curled toes.

John continues to fuck him—he fucks him so hard he fears he’s going to break him, but he physically cannot make himself stop, fucking him harder and faster until he's throbbing and pouring himself into William's heat. 

The two of them collapse into one another on the sofa, drenched in sweat and sex.

Before they have time to collect their breaths, there’s a loud knock at the door. 

John darts upwards, startled and confused, but William simply grumbles with annoyance. 

“The queen has arrived,” he says. 

“Who?” John reaches for William’s sheet and attempts to cover their bodies. He glances around the room they're in. The walls are bright white and mostly barren, other than a few framed portraits of people who appear to be royals. “Where are we?” he asks.

William laughs. “I always assumed our sex would be utterly mind-blowing, John, but I wasn’t expecting temporary amnesia.” He pulls the sheet back. "I suppose I understand." As his gaze settles on one of the portraits, he appears overcome with disdain. “I’ve deleted Buckingham Palace from my brain a few times as well.” 

***

John stands before an antique mirror, wearing a grey bespoke tuxedo. His black shoes are almost unbearably shiny, and a sprig of dried lavender is pinned to the collar of his jacket. He stares at his reflection, fully knowing that he’s looking at himself, but the man he sees feels unfamiliar. The dark skin around his eyes has grown far more prominent, and his hair is cut very short, embedded with wisps of grey. 

He appears to be in a fancy hotel room. At a wedding, judging by the expensive suit, flowers, and half-empty bottles of champagne on the counter top. William stands behind him, looking over his shoulder. He’s dressed similarly, but his tuxedo is a lighter colour than John’s, and the collar of his dress shirt is slightly unbuttoned. 

John's chest is filled with warmth and relief. He beams up at William, placing his hand on the breast of his coat. “Hey, you. I’m so happy you’re here.” 

William smiles back, but his smile is unbearably sad. "I'm happy to be here as well."

“Are you sure?” John quietly asks. “That you’re happy, I mean. Forgive me for saying it, but you don’t really seem so.”

"Of course, John." William purses his lips together; his mouth twitches. “If I missed your wedding, I could never forgive myself.” 

John falls silent. His eyes dart across the room, settling on a banner that hangs over the door.

_Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Watson_

“No,” John whispers to himself, a wave of nausea passing through him. He doesn’t like this dream anymore. He wants to leave it. So he squeezes his eyes shut and tells himself to wake up. 

“John.” 

John opens his eyes. William is still there. He's there, but he looks broken, and John can't bear the sight of it. So he takes a step forwards and kisses him on the lips. 

William immediately presses a hand onto John’s chest to push him away, the sadness on his face only intensified. "What are you doing?” he hisses. "What if _she_ sees..." He clears his throat, his cheeks becoming a dark shade of pink. "Unless—is it customary for the groom to kiss the best man prior to his wedding ceremony?"

Lord, did the John of this dream universe royally fuck things up. 

He glides his hand over William’s breast pocket, over his shoulder, and sets it on the collar of William’s dress shirt. “I don’t know,” he replies. "Is it customary for the groom to be desperately in love with his best man rather than his future wife?”

All of the blood seems to rush from William’s face, and he goes pale and silent. He sighs. “I’m not entirely sure how to answer that, John.” 

"No need." John brushes his fingertips over the cool skin of his neck. He moves a step closer to him still, and closer, as if gravity were somehow working to pull their bodies together.

“I don’t know where we are, or how we got here,” John says softly. “But there’s one thing I do know: whoever awaits me outside that door—they aren’t you. And in any world, in any universe, it’s you. It’s _always_ you." He slides his fingers over William's neck, over his cheeks, and through his curls. "So I’m going to kiss you now, and if you kiss me in return, that will speak more clearly to me than a hundred words.”

John kisses William with his entire soul, and William doesn’t hesitate, kissing him back with a soul that’s every bit as heated.

They fall into one another as though space and time were created for them alone; they pull and tug desperately at each other so that they may somehow be closer. William oh-so-quietly murmurs to John in between kisses that it’s John, too—it’s always been him. “You keep me right,” he says, and he swears to John that he will love him for as long as he lets him.

They collapse onto the bed, their suits becoming a crumpled pile on the floor. They quietly and tenderly make love, skin against skin, their lips and fingers discovering every inch of one another.

***

John awakens the next morning to the smells and sounds of Gabriela and Sarah making breakfast in the kitchen. His stomach rumbles, but more than anything, he needs to go home, and he needs time alone.

As he leaves, Gabriela hugs him. And then Sarah does. And then Gabriela does again. And then Sarah joins her, and the three of them hug and pretend they aren’t becoming emotional. The girls wish him luck, and he promises to message them as soon as he figures things out.

On his way home, he sits in the back of the cab, idly scrolling through his phone. He comes across the photographs he took the night before behind The Strand, of the letters “IOU” scrawled down the door in blood-red letters.

Even hours later, the images are chilling. He can't help but wonder if they're connected to the closing of The Strand—and to William's disappearance.

Deciding he’s got nothing to lose, he posts the photos onto his social media accounts. 

_Downtown, New Years. Came across this graffiti._

He turns off his phone and stares out the back window of the cab. It’s not even quite noon, but daylight hours are almost half over. He begins to doze off a bit, until his phone buzzes in his lap, notifying him that someone has posted a new photo.

It’s Molly.

_Molly._

Christ. John has been so distracted that he looked _right past_ the most blatantly obvious source of information—William’s dear friend, and an actual employee of The Strand. 

He opens the app to see what she posted.

_Kicking off the new year at Barker, reading up on some fluid dynamics! #phdlife_

“Excuse me,” John says to the driver. “My plans have changed. Can you take me to Barker Library on the MIT campus?”

*** 

John walks into the building and checks Molly’s photo: she’s in front of a bookshelf labeled QED72. After finding the location on the directory, he hurriedly makes his way towards the room. When he arrives, however, there’s not a person in sight.

“Molly?” He calls out. No answer. “Is anyone in here?” Silence.

He wanders around until he finds the bookshelf he's looking for; he skims through the books, but finds nothing of immediate interest.

"Molly?" He tries once more.

Suddenly, the lights in the room flicker off. Then, back on. He turns his head—a framed photograph on the wall catches his eye. It’s a portrait of a young woman wearing a cap and gown. The inscription reads:

Doctor Molly Hooper, receiving her diploma upon commencement of her PhD. Molly was featured in Time Magazine's _Twenty-five Women in Tech Under Twenty-five._

He squints; the photograph is somewhat blurry, though he’s positive it’s the Molly from The Strand. He’s also positive she told him she’s 23 years old and a current PhD candidate at MIT—yet, the caption states she has already obtained her PhD.

John sighs with frustration. Well, whatever the truth is about Molly, she doesn’t appear to be here at the moment; and if he can't talk to her, there’s no point in being here at all. 

He decides he should go. But as he turns to leave, the lights go off again, masking the room in blackness. In a few seconds, they turn back on. 

Three desktop computers are lined up against the wall, screens gone black; they buzz and beep loudly as they switch back on. A moment later, the center one goes white, bright red letters flashing over the screen. John leans closer to read them, and his heart skips a beat once he realizes what it says.

**JOHN WATSON**

He swallows thickly, forcing himself to stay calm. "Who's there?" he calls out. 

With this, the center screen flashes back off. The two outer monitors simultaneously turn on, displaying the same bright red lettering: 

**SHERLOCK**

John breathes steadily. "Sherlock."

Then, words begin scrolling over the screen on an infinite loop, one line after the other. 

**GET SHERLOCK**

**GET SHERLOCK**

**GET SHERLOCK**

**GET SHERLOCK**

**GET SHERLOCK**

**GET SHERLOCK**

“I don’t understand,” John says aloud to nobody in particular—a clear sign he’s going mad. “Who is Sherlock?” 

The room goes black one final time; but when power returns seconds later, the three computers remain switched off. 


	8. The Science of Deduction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “My dear Watson. What libations did you partake of this evening that you don’t recall the year, or recognise your own home?”
> 
> “Home.” John feels a rush of bliss spread through his chest. “Our home, correct? In the year—“ he ventures a guess. “Eighteen hundred and—“
> 
> “Ninety-five."

In a small fluorescent room with yellowing walls and no windows, there's a small, round table. The tall man with a crooked nose and a British accent sits there, his hands placed primly on the tabletop. 

He certainly doesn't seem like a police officer, John thinks. The police are public servants, and this man seems far more likely to have servants of his own. His uniform is pristine, pressed and perfectly tailored, from his shoes to the polished gun that hangs in its holster. 

"What brings you to Las Vegas, Mister Watson?" the man asks, his tone as thin as his lips. 

John takes a deliberate step towards the table, pinning the man with his eyes. "I don't believe you've told me your name, officer." 

The man opens his mouth as if to answer, but he quickly decides against it. "Let's cut to the chase. What is your relationship with Sherlock Holmes?"

John straightens his back, clenches his fists, and gives the man his most solemn glare. "I could be wrong," he says in a low, threatening voice. "But I'm pretty sure that's none of your god-damned business." 

The man scoffs, giving John a look of condescension. "If you're searching for Sherlock Holmes, I regret to inform you that you're out of luck." He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a piece of paper. "Because you see, Mister Watson." He slides the paper across the table. "Sherlock Holmes, as the world has come to know him, is dead." 

***

John makes his way home from the MIT campus, his head spinning with all of the odd things to happen in the past twenty-four hours. 

The Strand, closed, with no explanation. The blood-red letters "IOU" splattered onto the door. William's disappearance. Molly's photograph on the wall, and the mysterious, flickering message: GET SHERLOCK.

John's studying to be a doctor. There's a lot he knows about putting together a seemingly unrelated series of clues in order to form a hypothesis. In the practice of diagnoses, there's a balance of skill, knowledge, and reasoning—but John can't find any semblance of reason here. 

He stands at the far end of a mostly empty train car, hanging onto the railing with one unsteady hand. He sighs. If he could only speak to Molly, she could clear up so many things. But can she even be trusted? John knows she's lied to him at least once. What other things would she lie about, if given the chance?

He runs his fingers through his hair impatiently. He just wants to sleep. But he knows that if William is in danger, every minute counts—and that every minute is one minute closer to seeing him again.

***

Once he’s back at home, John ignores the hints of a migraine burning his temples, takes out his laptop, and searches Molly Hooper's name. The first website that’s returned is the Time Magazine article that was mentioned in the photo caption at the library. It’s dated from two years ago.

_Molly Hooper, 21, was the youngest person to ever be admitted into her alma mater at age fourteen. She currently attends MIT as a PhD candidate. Her research focuses on networking safety and international relations. She is the creator of a handful of software languages, the first of which she wrote at age ten. She has also created over a dozen applications that help break down cultural and communication barriers between government officials, quite possibly saving many lives in the process._

John stares at her photo, and she's got that fantastic smile John is so fond of. She still appears younger than her age. But according to this article, she is 23 now, so at least she told him the truth about that. And she's apparently a technological enigma, which she never really mentioned, either. So why the hell would someone so talented and accomplished be a hostess at a bar?

And Irene, for that matter: Molly said Irene has quite a lucrative career as a professional escort—but that she works at the bar for fun.

Could it simply be some sort of passion project for them both, or is there another reason behind it all?

After a few more pointless minutes of browsing, John receives a text message from Sarah.

_John. I‘m at The Strand. Can you come meet me here? There’s something you need to see. -Sarah_

_You’re outside of The Strand? Are you okay? -JW_

_We’re inside. Everything’s fine. It’s sort of difficult to explain. When can you get here? -Sarah_

_Fifteen minutes. -JW_

***

When John arrives, the sky is pitch black and covered in clouds. The frigid wind even pierces through his winter coat. But it doesn't compare to the chill that runs through him as he approaches The Strand. Perhaps it was the crowds and the New Years energy the night before, but tonight, the building looks different. It looks utterly abandoned and empty, as though it belongs in a ghost town.

He meets Sarah and Gabriela at the back end, and Sarah explains why she came back there: at some point the prior evening, she’d apparently lost her wallet—so the two of them came to search the area. 

But what they found instead was far more unsettling than they expected.

The back door of The Strand, which, only hours before, was covered in dark red letters, has been completely painted over with thick, black paint.

“When we arrived...” Gabriela explains, “...the door was cracked open and the lights were on. We thought that whoever was here may have picked up Sarah’s wallet, so we went in.”

John sets his hand on the door handle and pushes. The door swings open, and the lights are still on. “Was there someone inside?”

“That’s where it gets _really_ odd.” Sarah reaches into her handbag. “We wandered around and couldn’t find anyone there, but we did find this.” She holds out a lavender pouch made of patent leather. “My wallet. All of its contents are still there. Credit cards, IDs, even cash.”

John leans over to peek through the entryway. "That's good, I suppose? Where did you find it?"

Gabriela and Sarah exchange apprehensive glances. “That’s what we wanted to show you. Follow us."

As they walk into the building, John has a crushing feeling in his chest. The place is exactly as it had been a little over week ago, but with one very obvious, tall and beautiful and bright light missing. The lack of William there causes the place to be disturbingly quiet; the type of silent that's so persistent, it almost shatters your eardrums. 

The three of them tread carefully through the back lounge area until they come to a closed door. They stop there, and Sarah points to the bottom of the doorway. "We found it here. Propped up against the door, as if someone had placed it there deliberately." 

John's probably seen this door dozens of times, but never really thought twice of it. It seems normal enough; if anything, it likely leads to a broom closet or storage area.

But he doesn’t wait for an answer or an explanation. He opens it—and on the other side, he finds a small, dark staircase. 

"Did you go in already?" John asks. 

"Yeah." Gabriela touches his shoulder lightly. "We'll wait here. Go on ahead. If you need us, just call."

John is already at the foot of the stairs before she finishes her sentence. 

***

As he climbs to the top, he comes to a room. It appears to be a living quarters of sorts. There's a small bed and a tiny refrigerator in front. Against the wall, a couple of large shelves, filled to the brim with books. On the other side, a counter, littered with crumpled-up scraps of paper and various scientific instruments, including a fairly state-of-the art microscope.

John wanders in and towards the back, although it feels as though he's treading through sludge. Clothing is strewn about the room. Teacups and plates on the floor in front of open cabinets, as if someone left in a hurry. 

William's presence in the room is overwhelming. Though he may not be there physically, it's somehow undeniable. 

Next to the counter, John finds a music stand. There's an open book there: Bach Partita for Violin No. 3. Each page is covered in scrawled out notes and personal edits. Beside the music stand, hung over an armchair, is a silk white dress shirt. John touches it. It's definitely William's: he’s seen him wear it. He's seen it as it's slid off William's shoulders and into a pile on the floor. But that knowledge does nothing to prepare him for the name tag pinned neatly over the breast pocket.

John traces the letters of William's name with his fingertips. "William," he whispers. "Where have you gone?"

John lifts his gaze towards the wall, taking in his surroundings. It occurs to him that this is the closest he's ever been to knowing who William truly is—his hobbies, and his passions, and the place where he dreams at night. 

The bookshelves look like something that belong in a dusty old library: the books are leather bound and dated with worn spines and yellowing pages. John finds William’s collection both fascinating and endearing: from Aesop's fables to Shakespeare to philosophy and mythology. Art, music, history, poetry, biographies. And because they’re William's, John takes the time to read the title of every last one.

But among the hundreds of titles, there is one book, pulled slightly out from the shelf, that draws his attention: _The Science of Deduction,_ by S. Holmes. It's clearly newer than the other books that surround it. John takes it from the shelf and opens it, skimming his fingers over the introduction, the summary, the author's biography. 

_Sherlock Holmes is originally from London. He is an undergraduate student in chemistry at Cambridge University. He is the son of Siger and Violet, and has one elder brother. In his free time, Holmes enjoys walks with his dog, Redbeard; playing the violin; and conducting scientific experiments from his home._

John becomes lightheaded as it all crashes into place. 

Sherlock. 

Next to the biography, there's a photograph of a young man. He appears to be eighteen or so. His face is thin and clean-shaven; pale, but not sickly. His wavy hair is somewhere between light brown and auburn. He's got thick, heart-shaped lips and high cheekbones, and his eyes are hundreds of shades of green, blue, and gold. 

_William._

_***_

John momentarily loses his senses. He also loses his grip on the book, and it slips from his fingers, falling to the floor with a loud, echoing thud. 

He hears footsteps on the staircase within seconds. "John, are you alright?" Sarah and Gabriela come through the door. 

"Yeah. I'm alright." He's slightly in a haze as he stares at the open book on the floor. "I think I may have learned something about William."

Gabriela bends over to pick up the book. As she stands, an index card falls from the pages and floats onto the floor. She kneels back down to read it. "Find the woman. She will tell you where you need to go.”

"May I see it? The card." John extends his hand. 

Gabriela passes it over, and he rereads it. "No. Not the woman. _The Woman."_

"Uhhhh." Sarah frowns at him. "Perhaps you should sit down for a second, John."

"No, listen. The Woman. He flips the card over to show her. "The words are capitalised. Like it's a name."

"Do you think it may have been a simple grammar error?" Gabriela asks. 

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone, and he shows it to Sarah. “I received a text message the other day from what I assumed was a wrong number, so I didn’t give it much attention.”

“To book an appointment with The Woman,” Sarah reads aloud, “...call 702-555-2344.”

“Las Vegas area code,” Gabriela points out. 

John frowns. “Is it?"

"Yeah. I was born and raised in a small suburb right outside of Vegas. Should we call the number, then?"

"Wait a moment." He shakes his head. "There's no reason for you to become involved in all this, Gab." 

Gabriela gives him a half-smile and nods. “Let’s not decide anything right now. Let's get some food and some coffee. Maybe after that, we can figure out what to do next." 

John couldn’t agree more. He takes the index card, slips it into the pages of the book, and tucks the book beneath his shoulder.

The girls smile at him somewhat sadly, but say nothing as they walk down the dark staircase and back into the cold.

***

It’s past midnight, and they ring in the second day of the year by sitting at a cafe booth holding large mugs of lukewarm black coffee. John orders frozen yoghurt and the girls share something called a whoopee pie, a Massachusetts staple that John can't even say the name of while keeping a straight face. 

With sugar and caffeine bringing them back into the land of the living, they decide to call the number they found on the index card. 

John calls from his own phone. Three rings. A few seconds of jazz music, followed by a sensual voice: 

_Thanks for calling The Whip Hand, Vegas’ premier Escort Service for ladies and lads who like a bit of discipline. We’re busy at the moment, but you can book our services on our website, thewhiphand.com. Enjoy your day, and be sure to be naughty._

John hangs up. The girls watch him expectantly. “It's a—erm. It's an escort service. For S&M or...something. It's called The Whip Hand. They have a website." 

Gabriela soon has the site up on her phone, her eyes wide as she scrolls. “Holy shit, these women are beautiful.”

“Ooooh, let me see!” Sarah leans over immediately. “Oh, yeah. Damn, girl.”

John, who's also browsing the site on his phone, presses a link: _Meet our Escorts._ He lets out a low whistle. "Oh, damn. You're right. They're gorgeous." 

“Can I have one, honey?” Gabriela asks, biting her lip coquettishly. 

Sarah pats her on the shoulder. “Sure! Next time you're in Vegas, go for it."

Gabriela hums happily and kisses Sarah on the lips. “Best girlfriend ever."

John feels like he's missing something. His eyes wander from his phone, to Sarah, to Gabriela, and back to Sarah. “Wait. You’re okay with that?” 

“Sure.” Sarah says. “We’re poly. You know, not monogamous." 

“Oh. So..."

Gabriela laughs. "I mean, we don't go crazy. But as long as we're open about it, we trust one another. And at the end of the day..." she takes Sarah's hand. "She's the one." 

“Awwww.” Sarah lays her head on Gabriela’s shoulder.

“Oh!” Gabriela jumps suddenly, flinging Sarah away and nearly dropping her phone in the process. “John!” She points to her phone screen urgently. "Look! It's her! It's The Woman!"

John swiftly sets his phone onto the table and takes Gabriela’s. “Oh my god. The long black hair..the ruby red lips." 

“Oh! Let me see!” Sarah leans forwards to look. “I know her! She’s that bartender at the Strand—” she slumps back into her seat as the realisation hits. “—oh.”

John stares in disbelief. "You're right. It's Irene, from The Strand. Irene is The Woman. Find The Woman, and she'll tell you where you need to go." John takes a deep breath. "Irene works—or used to work—with William. She must know where he is." 

It's the only thing that makes sense. He picks up Sherlock's book—The Science of Deduction—and he points to a quote from the back.

"Once you eliminate the impossible," he reads, "whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth." He sets the book back down. "William—Sherlock wrote that."

“He’s pretty clever, isn’t he?” Gabriela grins and gives him a playful push on the shoulder. “I can see why you like him.”

“So what’s the improbable truth, then?” Sarah asks. 

“Think about everything that I’ve told you about. All that’s happened in the past day or so, to me, and to the two of you. One clue, leading to another. Perhaps it’s not a coincidence. Maybe somehow...those clues are leading me to William."

“If someone wanted to get you to William..." Gabriela asks. "Why wouldn’t they just...take you to him?"

"William did imply that he was in danger. And given...well, I don't think William's even his name. Perhaps he took on a false identity to run from whatever the danger is, or was."

"So that's why he left?" Sarah takes a sip. "And that's why he ended things with you?" 

John nods. "That's my guess. And if Molly was involved somehow...or Irene... I don't think they would have come right out and said anything about it. Possibly to protect William. Or themselves. Or even me. Molly could have purposely, perhaps falsely, checked in at the MIT library to lead me there...and to lead me to the Get Sherlock message." 

"Which would lead you to find the book..." Gabriela continues.

"Which was at The Strand...where my wallet was." Sarah's eyes grow wide. "Holy shit. Do you think someone intentionally pickpocketed me just to make sure you found that book?"

"Hopefully not—there’s no way to know for sure. But the book led me to The Woman's identity," John replies.

"Which will lead you to William!" Gabriela concludes happily. 

"See?" John says. "A clear sequence of events." 

"Wow." Gabriela exhales, blowing a wisp of dark hair from her face. "So are you gonna book the appointment with The Woman?"

John already has his credit card out. “She’s got time tomorrow evening.”

“Um, sweetheart.” Sarah reaches across the table to take John’s hand. “Have you forgotten that’s she’s, like, in Las Vegas?”

“Nope.” John doesn’t look up from his phone. 

“So you’re...going to Vegas?”

“Yep.”

“Oooooh!” Gabriela claps her hands together enthusiastically. “Spontaneous Vegas trip!”

“John.” Sarah’s voice is stern enough that John finally glances up at her. “Have you even been to Vegas before? It’s probably not a good idea to pursue a dangerous situation like this on your own, especially with little knowledge of the city…”

“I’ll go!” Gabriela chimes in. “It’s my hometown. I can definitely help you out. Plus, I’d love to see my mom and brothers.”

“Gabriela, I…” John clears his throat. “Although I appreciate the offer, I can’t ask you to—“

Gabriela ignores him, squinting at him suspiciously. “Are you booking The Woman on the website under your own name?” 

“Erm. Yeah.” He stops typing. “Why?”

Both women shake their heads. 

“Nope.”

“Bad idea.”

“This is someone who ran away, presumably to be safe,” Gabriela reminds him. “She could be fine with seeing you, but she could also refuse to accept the booking. Especially if she’s sworn to secrecy, or whatever.”

“Hmm. Suppose I use a fake name?” John muses.

Gabriela sets her elbows onto the table, batting her eyelashes at him as she rests her head in her hands. “How will you reserve the booking?”

“Credit card, of course,” John replies. “Which...oh, right. Has my name on it.”

Gabriela takes out her wallet and hands her credit card to him. “Looks like you need me, Watson. Book the appointment under my name. Gabriela Gomez, attorney at law, at your service. I can get her to talk.”

John laughs quietly. "Attorney. Funny."

Sarah and Gabriela don't laugh. "She's actually an attorney, John. She went to Harvard Law School."

"Wait." John feels like a bit of an idiot. "You never told me that." 

Gabriela shrugs. “You never asked. So when do we fly out?”

John exhales with defeat. “Fine. Next available flight out is tomorrow morning at nine.”

“Great!” Gabriela nods with approval.

“Have fun, you two,” Sarah says a bit wistfully. “Wish I could go, but there’s no way I can take off work with such short notice.”

Gabriela kisses her on the cheek reassuringly. “I’ll be thinking about you when I’m playing with the dominatrix.”

“Mmm. Promise?”

“Of course. I’m sure I’ll even pick up a few things we can try.” And they kiss. With tongue and everything. 

John groans. He wants to close his eyes and cover his ears and go to sleep for the next seven million years. Instead, he chugs his coffee, plans a _six hundred_ dollar date with a dominatrix, and charges his card for two one-way tickets to Sin City.

It’s not the strangest thing to occur this year by a long shot, and it’s barely been twenty-four hours.

The flight to Vegas the next day is six hours and is mostly uneventful. John and Gabriela are seated next to an overly-talkative woman in her sixties who chats with Gabriela for what seems like hours.

John takes some Dramamine, puts his earbuds in, and falls asleep. 

***

When John dreams, he and William—Sherlock—are in a dark room with a fireplace, sitting comfortably in armchairs across from one another. Sherlock is dressed in a waistcoat, and his dark curls are slicked back, which does much more to enhance his already-high cheekbones. He smokes a pipe as he reads from a paper.

John opens his mouth to speak, and something tickles his lips. He reaches up and discovers that he’s got quite the mustache.

“Sherlock,” John says softly. 

The man glances up over his newspaper, surprised, crows-feet eyes squinting in amusement. “Watson. You don’t normally call me that unless we’re making love.”

John’s cheeks turn hot and red, and he’s grateful for the lack of electricity in the age of—whatever age they're currently in.

“Right. Erm. Holmes. Where are we? And what year is it?”

Sherlock chuckles. “My dear Watson. What libations did you partake of this evening that you don’t recall the year, or recognise your own home?”

“Home.” John feels a rush of bliss spread through his chest. “Our home, correct? In the year—“ he ventures a guess. “Eighteen hundred and—“

“Ninety-five. Are you feeling quite alright?” Sherlock sets his paper and pipe onto the side table and peers at John, his expression one of great concern. “Your body language indicates that you’re feeling confused and unsettled. Are my deductions correct?”

“Deductions,” John repeats. “Yes, my dear Holmes,” he says, echoing Sherlock’s earlier sentiment. “I suppose your deductions are correct.”

Sherlock stands and moves swiftly to John's side, placing his hand gently onto his cheek. “Your face is warm. You must rest immediately.” He offers his other hand to John. “Come, Watson. I will put you to bed.”

John doesn’t actually feel feverish. He’s sure his face is only warm because he hasn’t stopped blushing since this dream began. He stands anyway, and he finds himself immediately wrapped in Sherlock's arms. It feels like the most natural thing in the universe.

Sherlock smiles down at him, the unbridled fondness in his eyes boldly apparent, even in the dark. “Watson." His voice, barely above a whisper, tickles John’s mustache. “I would kiss you right now, but I fear I may become ill as well. And who shall take care of you then?”

John brushes his nose against Sherlock’s, and Sherlock exhales with a shiver. “Must I remind you, Holmes, that I’m a doctor? If I’m ill at the moment, it’s likely you’ve already caught it. But we will care for one another, will we not?”

“Yes.” Sherlock brushes his lips against John’s. “I suppose we always do.” 

John pulls him down into a rough, passionate kiss, and Sherlock all but melts into him. He moans, sliding his lips and tongue over John’s, his fingers wandering beneath the back of John’s waistcoat, tracing up his spine.

Sherlock breaks the kiss somewhat suddenly, pulling away with a tense, worried expression. "Watson,” he says lowly. “We forgot to draw the curtains closed. What if we get caught?”

John kisses him firmly on the lips. “If anyone objects, we can blame it on my current state of feverishness.”

Sherlock leans his head into John’s neck, his ribs contracting with laughter. “There is only one person in the universe I would risk both influenza and imprisonment for.”

“I’ll find a way to make it up to you.” John grins, pressing his hips forward into Sherlock’s, proof of his already burgeoning hardness. “Now. I was told you were going to take me to bed.”

Sherlock's eyelids drift shut, and he exhales another shiver. “I will never grow tired of the way your body reacts to my lips alone.” He rolls his hips into John’s, showing that he’s every bit as erect. “Come along; I will give you the rest of me.”

The two men kiss and fumble at one another's clothes until they reach their candlelit bedroom. They collapse into a magnificently large bed, where they explore one another’s bodies with eager tongues and fingertips. They hold each other and whisper words of endearment until they can no longer bear the wait. 

John climbs on top of Sherlock’s body with his back facing him, his cock tickling Sherlock’s lips. As John takes Sherlock into his mouth, he feels the other man’s lips seal around his own hardness, and he nearly comes that very instant. Miraculously, he’s able to pull himself together. 

Through many breaths and ticks of the clock at their bedside table, they slide in and out of one another’s mouths. They consume one another, drink in one another, pressing their lips into the slick, velvet skin between their legs. They fuck each other’s mouths in a steady rhythm until John becomes weak in the knees, collapsing on top of his lover.

“Lie on your back,” Sherlock commands, patting him on his backside.

John pulls himself from Sherlock’s body, quivering with anticipation as he settles on his back. He takes a deep breath, spreading his legs apart, offering himself to Sherlock completely. 

Sherlock lowers himself, pulling John closer, spreading his knees further apart. He trails his tongue along the inside of John’s thigh, alternating between licks and kisses in a way that’s nearly torturous. He flattens his tongue against John’s opening and pushes, sending John into another plane altogether, and his hips straight up into the air. Sherlock isn’t deterred: he slides his hands up John’s thighs and past his hipbones, firmly pressing him back down into the bed as his tongue continues to push into him.

He moves his hands upwards, over John’s stomach and to his nipples. John moans as Sherlock plays with the hard pink skin, pinching and squeezing and flicking, never once ceasing the work of his tongue. He moans passionately against John, and John can feel the deep vibrations of his voice against himself. 

John swears as Sherlock pulls away suddenly. Sherlock gives him a smug grin, reaching over to the nightstand and removing a tin jar from the drawer. He pops the lid open, scoops out some petroleum jelly, and he slathers it liberally over his cock. He then leans over John’s body, wrapping his arms around him and pulling him closer until they're fully aligned, his slick hardness brushing against John’s opening. 

Sherlock pauses, gazing down at John. The candlelight flickers on his skin; his cheeks are a deep red, and his lips a dusky pink. His forehead is drenched with sweat, and his formerly combed-back hair has become unkempt, strands of it sweeping down his face. 

The look of utter reverence he gives John can barely be put into words. He bites at his bottom lip, breathes steadily, and begins to push himself in. 

The pleasure burns into John. His fingers curl against Sherlock’s back, and he digs his fingernails into his skin. Sherlock doesn’t break eye contact as he slowly pushes in deeper, the look on his face becoming more passionate still. 

“John,” he says between panting breaths. “My love. You are both my greatest pleasure and my deepest thrill. You take my breath away. I adore you.” 

The all-too familiar feeling of tears stings John’s eyes. “Sherlock. My love." He attempts to steady his voice, but he’s barely able to hide the emotion in his words. “You are the loveliest thing I have ever laid eyes on. To behold you is to behold even more beauty than the moon, or any ocean, or any mountain on Earth."

Sherlock dips his head to take John’s mouth into his, kissing with a passion and emotion that John has never felt. Not in real life, and not in any dream. Sherlock makes love to him with his whole body. And although John knows that they’re in their bed, in this dream—inside their humble abode—he swears he's ascended far above that.

They slide their lips and tongues messily together as Sherlock comes, pumping into John until he’s wrung himself dry. With his final thrust, he cries out John’s name.

John begins to come, fast and hot and completely untouched, spilling himself onto Sherlock’s stomach as he calls out his name in return. “I love you, Sherlock,” he says. “I love you with everything I am, everything I always was, and everything I ever will be.”

As they fall into a final kiss, John wakes up. 

***

“Morning, darling.” Gabriela's voice comes from the seat next to him. “Our plane has just landed.”

Light pours in. Bloody awful light. John rubs his eyes for far to long, hoping he’ll go back to sleep. “Already?” he groans. 

Gabriela laughs gently. “You were out like a light. You’ve got a bit of drool, there. Would you like a tissue?”

John wipes the saliva from his face. “No, no. I’m fine.”

She smiles at him—the same sad smile she gave him in William's bedroom at The Strand. “You were saying his name, you know. While you slept."

John clears his throat, averting his eyes to hide his embarrassment. “Who? William?”

“No,” she replies. “The other name. The real one.”

"Oh. Yeah."

She takes his hand. “We’re going to find him, John. No matter what it takes.”

John knows she’s right. He knows, deep in his bones, that there is no other choice. Because— although he's aware of how mad he may seem, he is utterly overwhelmed with the knowledge that it’s their destiny.


	9. A Life for a Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dear John.
> 
> Perhaps I should reintroduce myself. My name is Sherlock Holmes, although you know me by another. And a bit over two years ago, I died.
> 
> I was incredibly lucky to know the right people to help me do so without suspicion of intent. 
> 
> I didn’t want to die. I died because I had to. 
> 
> I died because I knew who Moriarty was.

**Sherlock Holmes, 23, Found Dead in London Home**

_Sherlock Holmes has been found dead at his home in London. He was 23. The doctoral candidate at Oxford University was discovered by the police in the early morning._

_Sergeant Gregory Lestrade of New Scotland Yard confirmed that they were called by London Ambulance Service to an address on Montague shortly after 6 am following reports by neighbours. On arrival, officers found the body of a man who was pronounced dead at the scene._

_Holmes was praised among scholars for his book The Science of Deduction, and was later noted as the protege of Doctor Richard Brook, professor of forensics. Brook is currently set for trial by a grand jury for his alleged involvement in the Oxford murder cases._

_Holmes’ death is being treated as “unexplained,” but sources say he died of a drug overdose._

*******

In Las Vegas, the sky is blue and cloudless and the air is dry. Hills and red rocks and green mountains spot the distant horizon. It’s balmy and 65 degrees Fahrenheit, unheard of to John for early January—and a dramatic change from the freezing rain and chilly winds of Boston. 

As he and Gabriela take a taxicab to their hotel in the old downtown district, John notes that Sin City is somewhat less lively than expected. It seems more of an expansive desert metropolitan area than a city of flashing lights, but Gabriela assures him that nighttime will be much different. 

They arrive at their hotel around half past three. It’s quaint and carries historical charm, set among a broad street of casinos, vendors, and American-style diners. The furniture and walls are definitely aged, but their room is far larger than John had expected—more of a studio flat than a hotel room. 

They’ve got a few hours to kill before The Woman arrives, and Gabriela convinces him to hit the casinos. He wins thirty dollars and loses forty-five, but he’s thrilled to discover that drinks are free. As the day goes by, he tries not to feel guilty about passing the time so idly; deep down, he knows there’s not much he can do until he talks to Irene. So although Sherlock is at the forefront of his mind, he allows himself to take in the sights. 

***

John and Gabriela head back to their room about an hour before their planned meeting time with The Woman. As they enter, Gabriela stumbles over her stiletto heels and topples onto the bed face first. She laughs hysterically, and John accuses her of being drunk, and she argues, telling him she’s simply always been clumsy. 

John decides to humour her, but he makes her something resembling coffee from an oddly-shaped pouch and a clunky machine in the corner of their room. She kicks off her shoes, curls up onto the side of the bed and thanks him. 

“I promise I’ll be sharp as a tack once she arrives,” Gabriela says with a wink, taking a sip of her muddy-looking coffee. “Now let’s review the plan.”

John takes a seat on the bed next to her, nodding firmly. “Right. You stay here and wait for her to arrive. She’s scheduled for 9. Don’t forget to turn on your earpiece. I’ll be in the casino listening in.” 

“First, I seduce her.” Gabriela takes another sip of her drink before she seems to realise she hates it. She sets it down onto the table with a gagging noise. “Then, I’ll attempt to get her talking about herself. And about Sherlock,” she adds. “If we’re lucky.”

“I’ll be wearing my earbuds,” John reminds her. “I can hear you, but I can’t talk to you. If it’s urgent, I’ll text, but try to be nonchalant about answering.” 

“You got it.” Gabriela leans forwards and lays a hand on his upper arm. “Too bad you can’t join us, love. The Woman and I are going to have lots of fun.” 

John sighs. Gabriela is, by all means, as beautiful as ever. The sundress she wears hugs her curves, and it shows off her long legs and perfect, glowing skin. John may have been tempted by her in the past—but right now, for him, it’s Sherlock. Only Sherlock. 

“Don’t forget why we’re here, Gab,” he says gently. “First work. Then play.”

“I have a talent for doing both at once.” Gabriela leans away, adjusting her dress straps and flipping her long, dark strands of hair behind her shoulders. “Don’t worry, love. I know that Sherlock is our priority, and I promise to honor that.” 

John musters up a tiny smile for her, and she leans in to kiss his cheek before wandering off to shower and prepare for her rendez-vous. 

John shuts his eyes and takes a moment to breathe in. “The Woman will tell you where to go,” he whispers to himself, echoing the words of the note he found in Sherlock’s flat. 

He can only hope she’s willing.

***

At nine o’clock sharp, John watches Irene walk in through the entrance of the hotel. He barely recognises her. If it weren’t for her scarlet lips and raven-coloured hair, she may have gone right past him, unnoticed. She wears designer shades on her face, and her hair is swept off her neck into a high bun. Rather than her typical corset, she’s in a simple red dress and sheer black stockings.

John’s heart jumps into his throat as she saunters by—tugged upon both by relief and nervousness. He’s glad she showed, but is apprehensive about what the night could potentially bring.

He retrieves his phone from his pocket to send a message to Gabriela.

_She’s just walked into the building. Turn on your earpiece and say something to me._

He hears a fuzzy sound from his earbuds before Gabriela’s voice comes through. “Hey, friend. Can you hear me?”

He texts her back.

_Yep._

“Great,” she says. “You doing alright?”

_Yeah. I’m right near the main entrance at the slot machines. Wearing a cap and sunglasses to appear in cognito. I’ll be right there if you need me._

“Oooh,” Gabriela says with amusement. “Wearing sunglasses and a sports cap at the penny slots. You sure you haven’t been to Vegas before?”

Before John can respond, he hears a loud knock from Gabriela’s end of the earpiece. 

“She’s here,” she whispers. “Wish me luck.”

John inhales slowly, steadying his breath. After all, Sherlock’s fate—and perhaps John’s own—depend upon on how this meeting goes. He decides not to remind Gabriela of that.

_Good luck._

***

John listens in as Gabriela greets Irene enthusiastically. He can hear Irene’s reciprocal response, the kisses to one another’s cheeks. Gabriela offers her a drink, and she accepts; they continue idle chit-chat as she prepares it. 

She joins Irene on the sofa and they continue with a few minutes of small talk. Gabriela seems to have a way of narrating what’s going on without making it seem awkward or out of place, and John is thankful for that.

When the small talk ends, however, and things heat up between the two women— he’s less thankful. He tries not to let their murmuring words of desire and vivid descriptions of sexual scenarios affect him. He sort of wants to slump down in his chair—he’s in public, and it’s not the time or the place to become aroused by the sounds of two women having sex. 

He thinks of Sherlock. If only makes things more awkward. 

Gabriela begins using a low, breathy voice to share her fantasies with Irene, and John gives in and listens. He’s sort of got to, right?

“I want you to handcuff me to the bed,” he hears Gabriela moan. “Blindfold me. Wrap your legs over my legs, and rub your clit against mine, over and over, until I’m just about to come. Then ride me with your wetness, sliding it over my naked body until it reaches my mouth.” 

“Mm, yes,” Irene murmurs. “I’ll ride your face so hard that you won’t be able to breathe. I’m going to bury you into me, rock my hips and rub my clit over your mouth, and you will fuck me with your tongue until I come, screaming. And once you’ve made me come once, I will keep fucking you until I come again, and again, and again, until I decide you can breathe again.”

John is hard in his pants. God dammit. A cocktail waitress walks by and offers him a drink, and he quickly waves her off with an embarrassed “No thanks.” 

He’s not sure what exactly happens next, but judging by the ragged breaths and stifled moans and trembling sighs of pleasure, they’re making the fantasy come true. 

He tries to drown it out by closing his eyes and envisioning himself and Sherlock living out the same fantasy. Sherlock, rubbing his hard, wet cock against John’s, sliding up John’s sweaty, slick body until he’s straddling his face. Sherlock, fucking John’s mouth, forcing him to bring him to orgasm as John is tied to the bed, whimpering for more. 

One of the women orgasms with a loud moan; John’s not sure which one. And then there are more sounds of orgasms, and more, and more. 

Damn, John thinks to himself. All these orgasms. Being a lesbian must be fun. 

The next thing he hears is Irene’s voice whispering into Gabriela’s ear. “You can’t see it because of the blindfold, but I’m wearing my favourite strap-on. I’m going to slide into your wet pussy and pump into you, hard. And I’ve had a lot of practice, so I’m going to fuck you until you’re coming so explosively that you see stars.” The sound of a kiss. “Relax,” she says. “And tell me you want it.” 

“God, yes,” Gabriela pants. “I want it. Fuck me.” 

Irene chuckles breathily. “Only if you beg.”

Gabriela groans. “Fuck me, _please.”_ As she finishes her last word, she cries out with a breathless euphoria, followed by rhythmic gasps of pleasure, wet skin slapping against wet skin. 

John closes his eyes again, imagining Sherlock beneath him this time, blindfolded as John fucks him so hard that he screams and begs for mercy. 

Once Gabriela comes, her voice becomes muffled once again—John can only imagine that Irene is back to straddling her face, rocking against her until she can take one final orgasm from Gabriela’s tongue. 

Once the noises of pleasure die down, John tries with all his might to hide his raging hardness.

That’s when he hears a loud gasp of shock from Gabriela, flowed by Irene’s voice, crystal clear, once again. 

“Incredible,” she breathes. “Good god, Miss Gomez, you can fuck. But now that your tongue has made me come more times than I can count, I’ve got to ask you something. Did you think I wouldn’t notice the microphone behind your ear?”

John’s eyes widen, and he jolts upwards. He presses his earbuds deeper into his ears to listen. 

“Obviously, I noticed it immediately,” she purrs. “But I decided it would be more fun to pull my knife to your face after you’ve orgasmed. Don’t you think?”

“Oh, fuck.” John leaps from his chair, knocking over a tray full of quarters, sending them pouring to the ground with a loud pitter-patter. He ignores it, making his way towards the elevator. 

The final thing he hears is Irene’s breath against the microphone, and another muffled cry from Gabriela. “I’ve seen you, before, Miss Gomez. You’ve come into The Strand a few times, have you not? And here you are. So tell me,” Irene says slowly. “Who do you work for?”

The earpiece booms in John’s ears. He hears Gabriela scream again just before the sound goes off. He rips his earbuds out, throwing them to the ground as he runs “No. Gab!” 

He wants to kick himself for being a complete idiot. After how little he knows about Irene, why hadn’t he considered the possibility that she could be dangerous? Especially given Sherlock’s state of mind, and their strange disappearances. God, he’s been completely blinded by love, and now, he’s gone and endangered his friend.

He makes it to the corner in front of the elevator, but as he turns, he bumps straight into someone. Hard. 

“Asshole!” a woman barks at him. “Watch where you’re going! Jesus!” 

“I’m so sorry,” John mumbles, but he doesn’t stop—he attempts to quickly move past her. 

But she won’t allow it. “Slow down.” She grabs him by the arm, her fingernails cutting into him, pulling him back. “You nearly knocked me over there, bud.”

“Let _go!”_ John pulls his arm away with all his force, turning back to face her. “Fucking hell!” he snaps at her. “Are you insane?” 

It was probably a terrible choice to yell at her. It was definitely a terrible choice. But he doesn’t have much time to reflect on it before the woman slaps him across the face, hard, and everything goes black.

***

When John comes to, he’s lying on a cold floor in a small fluorescent room with yellowing walls and no windows, and he’s got no way of telling how much time has passed. 

He sits up, his head throbbing. Dizzy, he reaches up to touch his fingers to his sore, swollen face. 

“You’re back with us, then?” A thin, haughty voice drawls.

As John’s eyes adjust, he sees a small, round table in front of him, and a tall man with a crooked nose sitting behind it. The man appears to be a police officer, though somehow, he doesn’t really seem to fit the bill.

They’re the only two in the room. The man regards John apathetically, his fingers crossed together over the tabletop. 

“Where the hell am I?” John sputters as the room continues to fall into focus. 

The man simply grins. “Do you remember what happened to you before you became unconscious?”

John groans, rubbing his temples harder as if to revive the memory. “I was...in the casino… and a woman slapped me…”

The man chuckles. “You got into a physical dispute with a woman? Shame on you.” 

“No!” John exclaims. “No. I would never...I bumped into her by accident, and she got angry, and I yelled at her a bit, but I was only trying to—” John remembers Gabriela, and he pulls himself up to his feet. “My friend. I was trying to help my friend. I think she’s in danger. Please, let me go so I can find her.” 

The man rests his elbows on the table, fingers interwoven, and sets his head on his hands. “I’ve got a few questions first, Mister Watson.” 

A chill runs through John’s body at the sound of his name on the man’s lips. “Who are you?” he asks. “And how do you know my name?”

“Your ID card was on your person when we...collected you, of course.” 

John doesn’t like this man at all. He’s stuck up, and rude, and demanding. And now, as John feels he’s being mocked, his chest begins to flare with anger. 

“What brings you to Vegas, Mister Watson?” the man asks. 

“I don’t believe you’ve told me your name, officer,” John says, moving forwards. 

The man responds with a catty lift of the eyebrow, and he sighs dramatically. “Let’s cut to the chase,” he says. “What is your relationship with Sherlock Holmes?”

John has never wanted to punch a man so badly in his life. How dare he detain him for no reason, interrogate him—and now, he’s got to know his business with Sherlock? 

“I could be wrong,” John growls. “But I’m pretty sure that’s none of your god-damned business.” 

The man scoffs. He reaches into his pocket, his fingers sliding past the holster of his well-polished gun. “If you’re searching for Sherlock Holmes,” he says, “I regret to inform you that you’re out of luck. Sherlock Holmes, as the world has come to know him, is dead.” 

The man sets a piece of paper onto the table and pushes it across. 

“No.” Although John has found himself speechless, he knows that single word reflects his complex thoughts. Sherlock isn’t dead. John knows it, somehow. Regardless, he takes another step towards the table and looks down at the piece of paper at the tips of the man’s long, bony fingers. 

It’s a British news article:

**_Sherlock Holmes, 23, Found Dead in London Home_ **

John is immediately slammed with an acute sense of sadness and dread, but he catches himself before it spins out of control. He scans the article briefly before looking at the publication date. 

“This was written two years ago,” John says, inhaling sharply through his nose. “I don’t give a fuck about what happened to Sherlock two years ago. I saw him just last week. Yeah. At Christmas. And I definitely wasn’t getting sucked off by a corpse. Not really my thing.”

The man’s lips curl in disgust, and he closes his eyes, taking a moment to compose himself. John smiles with the satisfaction of having wiped that smug smile off his face. 

“And yet you haven’t seen him since,” the man continues. “He’s mysteriously disappeared, has he not? How are you so sure he’s still alive?”

“I’m not. But until I’ve got proof, I’ll go to the ends of the earth to find him.” John’s surge of passion surprises even himself, but as he settles into the words, he appreciates their truth. 

The man coughs daintily into one curled up hand. “Do you love him, Mister Watson?” he asks, reaching for a glass of water. 

“Also none of your god-damned business.” John glares at the man, hoping he spills the entire glass of water on his ridiculously pristine shirt. 

The man sets the water onto the table, his eyelids fluttering wearily. “If you believe that Sherlock Holmes is in love with you, you are incredibly foolish. Holmes cares only about his mind. All emotion is abhorrent to him. He referred to it as a grit in a sensitive instrument. A—”

“—crack in the lens,” John cuts him off. “Yeah. I know. I’ve read his book, too. And as I’ve already said, I don’t give a fuck about who he was then.” He presses his hand firmly onto the table. “I know who he is now, and he is absolutely capable of love. I’ve seen it. He has friends who are very dear to him, and he’s a good man.” 

The tall man purses his lips, narrowing his eyes into a dull, grave expression. “In that case,” he says. “I hope you will heed my warning, Mister Watson.”

John can barely be bothered to lift an eyebrow. “And what’s that?”

“Stay away from Sherlock Holmes,” he says, leaning backwards into his chair. “...or you _will_ regret it.” 

“Noted, and already forgotten.” John glares across the table, standing tall, his shoulders wide. “And if you continue to fuck with me rather than letting me go,” he utters, clenching his fists to his sides. “... _you_ will regret it.” 

The man’s brow furrows, his nostrils flaring, and John wants to punch that big, stupid nose right off of his face. 

But before he can, the man’s radio receives an incoming message. 

“Sir,” a voice says from the other end. “Mister Watson’s attorney is here to see him.” 

John frowns. The man sighs. 

“Attorney?” the say in unison, both of them caught off guard. 

The man waves his hand dismissively. “Go.” 

The door to the room swings open, and John walks through it, and he’s greeted by a familiar voice. 

“John.” Gabriela stands before him with a big grin on her face. “Hey. Heard you were stirring up trouble.”

“My attorney!” John exclaims, wrapping her in a hug. “Gab! Oh my god, are you...are you hurt?” he leans back, studying her face. “Where is The Woman?”

“I’m fine,” she says. “I’m fine. I promise. But let’s not cause a scene, okay? Follow me. We’re not far from the hotel.” 

John rubs the back of his head, still aching a bit from lying on the hard floor. “Where are we, exactly?” he asks. 

“We’re still downtown. Just a short walk from our hotel. You were in some sort of...casino security office. I knew where to find you, though, thanks to Molly’s brilliant spy skills, and Irene’s knowledge of the area.”

“Molly?” John’s eyes grow wide. “You spoke to Molly? And Irene? _Irene._ She didn’t cut you, then? She sounded like she was about to—“ he makes a slicing gesture across his throat with his finger.

Gabriela laughs and shakes her head. “Nope. No blood.”

Molly. Molly _and_ Irene. John can hardly believe their good fortune; how easy it was to find their whereabouts. For a moment, he wonders if the girl in the casino actually slapped him to death, and he’s in another life. Or if he’s asleep, and dreaming again, only Sherlock hasn’t made his appearance yet.

Or perhaps the universe is finally conspiring to get the two of them back together. 

Gabriela tilts her head thoughtfully at John’s questions. “Anyway. Um, Molly? Yes. Spoke to her? Irene? Yes, and yes.” She takes his hand. “And don’t worry, love. Once I explained to Irene that I was with you, she let me go. The rest of your questions will be answered once we’re back.” She smiles. “Let’s go. You’ve got friends waiting for you.” 

John wants to ask, more than anything, if Sherlock will be waiting there as well. But he’s too afraid of what the answer will be; so he decides to simply count his blessings for now. 

***

Before John can even make it past the threshold of his hotel room, he’s got an armful of tiny redhead wrapped around him. 

“John!” Molly squeals enthusiastically.

“Molly,” he says happily, resting his chin on her head. “Hey.” 

“I can’t believe you’re here!” she responds. “I’ve missed you!” She leans away from him, her arms gripping his sides, her eyes brimming with tears. “You good?”

John’s mind is blank as he tries to process what’s happening. “Yeah, good. You? Is Sherlock with you?”

Molly gives him a playful punch on the shoulder. “I’m good. And Sherlock’s not with us, unfortunately, but he’s safe.” 

“For now,” comes a miffed voice from the other end of the room. John glances over to see Irene seated at the edge of the bed, wearing a satin robe, her arms and legs crossed. Clearly, she’s far less excited to see him than Molly is. 

John ignores Irene’s comment, a thousand pound weight falling from John’s chest in knowing that Sherlock is safe. “Oh, good,” he exhales. “Thank god.” He grabs Molly again, pulling her in close and holding her there. “I need to ask you about a billion questions,” he says with a chuckle. 

“Yeah.” Molly sniffles. “I know.”

John peeks over her head to survey the room. Gabriela is on the bed next to Irene, her hand resting on her knee. It’s no surprise that she’s already comfortably intimate with The Woman, he thinks.

He looks back over at Irene, and he gives her a nod in greeting. “Irene,” he says flatly.

“You shouldn’t have followed us here,” she snaps in response. “You’ve put yourself in danger by doing so.” 

“Irene,” Molly softly admonishes. 

John moves his gaze to the sofa, where yet another woman is seated. He wasn’t expecting a fourth—although she seems vaguely familiar. She’s thin, with fair skin and dark brown hair, and she’s dressed simply in a black jumper and black slacks.

“Hey, John.” She waves. “How’s it going?”

Her voice is what triggers his memory. She’s got a British accent now, but before, when they were having drinks at The Strand, her accent was definitely American. It was on Stamford’s birthday, and she was there with her friend Elizabeth, and she was flirtatious and all smiles and touched John quite a lot. 

“Marci?!” John exclaims. He slumps forwards a bit into Molly, and she guides him to a chair where he can sit down. “What are you doing here?” he asks. “Is Stamford okay?” He swallows nervously, his eyes falling to her midsection. “And, um—aren’t you supposed to be pregnant?“

Marci rolls her eyes and laughs. “Mike’s okay. And I was never actually pregnant—Sherlock was just being a dramatic arsehole.” 

“Marci’s with us,” Molly explains. “She works with us, that is.”

John frowns in confusion. “Marci works at The Strand?”

“No,” Marci quickly responds. “But neither do they, anymore.”

“There are some things we should probably tell you, John.” Molly places a hand on his shoulder. 

“Molly,” Irene says sternly. “Must I remind you of why we left Boston to come here?” 

Molly sighs. “I realise that we didn’t plan for John to show up, and that it complicates things. But—he’s already here, which puts him at the same level of danger as the rest of us.”

“It’s not the same,” Irene huffs. “God, don’t you see? Sherlock is in _love_ with John. It puts his life at a much, much higher risk.”

“I think Molly’s right,” Marci chimes in. “What’s done is already done. John has already fucked himself over by being here. If he’s in danger, he may as well understand what he’s in danger of.” 

Irene sighs, rolls her eyes, and turns away from them—but she doesn’t protest any further. 

“Wait just one damn moment,” John interjects. “You didn’t expect me to be here, you said? But... the only reason I’m here at all is because of the clues that led me to you.”

“Yeah,” Molly nods. “We know. Gabriela filled us in on all of that.”

“It’s pretty wild,” Marci says with disbelief. “All of those things, connected so you could find us? And it actually worked? Someone definitely had a hand in it. The question is: who?”

John’s eyes dart between the four women, who all appear deeply confused. “Am I to understand that none of you had a thing to do with those clues?”

“Of course we didn’t.” Irene says over her shoulder. “It’s our job to _protect_ Sherlock. Why would we bring you here, knowing it would only hurt him?”

Molly holds a hand up to intervene. “Right. Let’s fill John in on this little detail fist. John...” She looks back over to him. “Irene, Marci and I don’t just work with Sherlock. We sort of...work _for_ him.”

“We were hired to keep him out of trouble,” Marci adds. 

“Oh.” John inhales. “Right, okay. So...you’ve been hiding this all along? And that explains why you lied about being a current student at MIT?”

Molly shrugs. “Stretching the truth is part of the job, I guess. We’ve all lied about our identity in one way or another.”

“I don’t even use my real name,” Marci says, but John doesn’t think to ask her what it is.

“Hold on. Hold on. Give me a moment.” John needs to process what’s happening. “So you’re some sort of secret...agents?”

“More like bodyguards,” Marci corrects him. “But that does sound cooler.” 

John moves on, ignoring her comment. “...and your job is to protect Sherlock. And he fled Boston, so you followed him. And that’s why The Strand shut down.”

Molly nods. “So far, sounds about right.” 

“Tell him about the Instagram,” Gabriela suggests. 

“Oh.” Molly reaches for her phone. “John, the Instagram account you follow with my name on it isn’t actually mine. I don’t even own a cat,” she laughs. “Some of the photos were taken by me—years ago. Like the one at the MIT library.” 

“It’s possible someone posted the photo of her on that day as a way of leading you to the library for the next clue,” Gabriela says. 

John inhales. “Alright, then.” He pauses for a moment, clearing his throat. “I’ve got two very important questions. To start: where is Sherlock now?”

“That’s the thing. We can’t share his location,” Molly says. “Mostly because we don’t know it ourselves.” 

“He didn’t tell us—for our own protection,” Irene finally speaks up. “He doesn’t want us coming near him until he’s sure the danger has passed.” 

“Meanwhile, he’s got other forms of protection where he’s staying,” Molly reassures him. “And we’re doing what we can from here. You know. Technology stuff, spying on people, getting answers, blah blah blah.” 

John nods, looking up at her with sincerity. “Onto my next question, then.” He takes her hands into his. “Molly, please. Tell me. What is Sherlock running from?”

She reaches back into her pocket and pulls out a white envelope. “I’m not going to tell you,” she says. “But I think you’ll find everything you need to know in this letter.” 

“Molly, no,” Irene protests. 

“Lay off, Irene,” Molly says sharply. “Sherlock wrote the letter _for_ him.”

“For him to read under very specific circumstances,” Irene says firmly. 

Molly holds the envelope towards John. “He entrusted me with it,” she says. “Therefore, he trusted me to make the best decision. And I truly believe this is it.” 

John blinks at her, his gaze falling to the envelope. 

Irene rises from the bed with an exasperated sigh, mumbling angrily under her breath. 

“Sherlock may have started off as an assignment,” she says as Gabriela takes her hand reassuringly. “But he’s become more than that. He’s my friend, too. And at all costs, he must be protected. How am I supposed to sit idly by as the man he loves digs the both of them into a deeper and deeper hole?”

“Irene, love.” Gabriela squeezes her hand. “It’s going to be okay.”

“She’s right,” Marci says. “We’re all in this together, now. And we’re going to protect Sherlock, and we’re going to protect John, and things will turn out okay in the end.”

Irene sinks back into the sofa, pulling Gabriela down with her. She sighs with resignation, curling their bodies together. “I suppose I’m outnumbered. Go on, then.”

Molly sets the envelope in John’s hands. He stares down at it for a few moments before opening it. Tries to take in the enormity of this, Sherlock’s gift.

With trembling hands, he pulls out the letter and begins to read it. 

***

Dear John.

If this letter has made its way into your hands, it means that either I’ve died, or that Molly has given it to you despite my wishes. If the latter is indeed the case, please remind her that she has drunkenly poured her heart out to me many times, and I know just enough about her to be dangerous. 

John. I have no way of knowing how long it will be before you read this. But even as I write it, I’m missing you more than I can begin to describe. It’s quite strange, actually. I feel as though I’ve spent most of my life missing you—even before I knew you.

But knowing you has taught me what it feels like to want something with my entire being. Never in this life have I felt a passion so deep. You awoke my soul, John Watson. And though I knew the danger of falling in love with you from the start, and though I tried to keep it from happening, I was helpless to stop it. 

Before I continue, perhaps I should reintroduce myself. My name Sherlock Holmes, although you know me by another. And a bit over two years ago, I died. 

I was incredibly lucky to know the right people to help me do so without suspicion of intent.   
  
I didn’t want to die. I died because I had to. 

I died because I knew who Moriarty was.

Allow me to explain. As a student at Oxford, I assisted a young professor by the name of Doctor Richard Brook. He was someone I greatly admired, and the admiration was mutual. We quickly formed a deep and complex friendship.

Though young, Brook was well-known in the field of forensics, and the constant opportunity for investigating cases alongside him became intoxicating. 

This is why, despite our closeness—and my skills of observation—he was able to murder five different women without me knowing.

You may have heard about the Oxford murders, a string of serial killings that occurred a few years ago. After the fifth, a man named Moriarty wrote a letter to the police confessing to the crimes.

I’d been following the course of the case in my spare time, and after the fifth murder case, I had a revelation. 

I was walking into Brook’s laboratory the moment I solved the murders. There he was, staring down at his documents in the same manner he had every day in the years I’d known him. He was Brook, and then he wasn’t.

The case came together all at once, and all clues pointed to him.

Richard Brook was Moriarty. 

My friend, my partner, my hero: a murderer.

I took one last look at him before turning around and walking to the police station to report him. I don’t know if he even noticed me in the doorway of his lab that day.

Brook was arrested and put on leave of absence. Using the evidence I provided, he was charged with five counts of first degree murder.

My world became unsteady. I was plagued with guilt and grief and confusion. Though I knew without a doubt that he was a deplorable, vile human being for what he’d done, I wanted it not to be true. 

One evening, there was a knock at my door. I opened it—it was Moriarty. He was a shell of who he once was; I could no longer detect a single piece of Brook in him. But I wasn’t afraid of him. I knew that whatever happened at that point was simply my destiny. 

He came in and took a seat. We drank tea and made small talk. We didn’t speak about how I’d been the one to turn him in. We didn’t speak about the date of the trial. We didn’t speak about how I already agreed to testify against him in court. 

We talked about the weather. We talked about binary code. We talked about the Bible, and what it truly means to be saved. 

Brook was a devout Catholic, and he would often quote verses from the Bible during our studies. He was aware that it drove me mad. 

As he stood to go, I stood with him, extending my hand to his. “The New Testament,” he said. “Matthew 5:38.”

Despite my lack of knowledge, this particular verse was familiar to me. 

“You have heard it said before,” Moriarty continued. “An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth.” 

I waited for him to complete the verse, but when he didn’t, I finished for him. “I say unto you do not resist an evil man: if he strikes your right cheek, turn your head and offer him the left one.” 

At that, he finally shook my hand to leave—but before turning away, he bent over to whisper into my ear:

“I owe you.”

I didn’t ask what he meant. I already knew. An eye for an eye. A tooth for a tooth. A life for a life. I had all but taken his. 

Before long, the people I loved began to experience great misfortune. My father was involved in a hit and run accident which permanently injured his spine. My brother was in a train station when a bomb went off a few yards away from him. But it wasn’t until my mother was kidnapped at gunpoint and held for ransom that I knew for sure. 

Moriarty wasn’t simply taking my life away from me. He was taking my heart away from me, too. He was going after the people I love.

I knew what I had to do. I knew that it was the only option to protect my loved ones from him. So I notified the court that I would no longer be testifying against him, and I constructed the plans for my death. 

A dear friend of mine, Sergeant Lestrade, led the investigation and handled the press, ensuring my death appeared to be real. My brother, who works for the British government, was able to build a new identity for me and send me to the US. I was to be William Scott, a bartender in Boston. I soon met Molly, Irene, and Mary, who were enlisted by my brother for my protection. Besides their being somewhat of a family away from home, each of them possesses their own invaluable skill. Molly is a technological genius. Irene is powerful and influential among people of a higher status, and has the remarkable ability to get people to talk. And Mary is a skilled weapons artist with a sharper shot than anyone I’ve ever met. 

In light of my apparent death, the key witness was gone, and Moriarty was soon acquitted. I became complacent; especially after time moved on. I began to believe—despite the warnings of my family and friends—that he would remain convinced I was dead. 

But he has a network of dozens of people, as I came to learn. And somehow, my new identity got back to him, as well as the fact that I am alive. Upon receiving this news, my first thought was of how I would never be able to say goodbye to you. I was nearly ruined by the realisation—but then, there you were. At the doorstep of The Strand. And it was Christmas, and I sensed how desperately we needed one another. 

When you told me you loved me, that solidified the realness of what might happen if Moriarty found out about us. And I knew that was when I would have to say goodbye.

This morning I woke up to find graffiti on the door of The Strand. In red letters: I.O.U.

It’s what he said to me that day. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, a life for a life. So I am leaving Boston, and leaving The Strand behind.

John. In mere weeks, you have given me enough happiness to last an entire lifetime. Every kiss from you was worth at least a thousand more. I will never forget you.

But I need you to swear that you will not try to find me. Because Moriarty is going to find me as well. And he will go for my heart, and then, he will go for my life. And he cannot, _must_ not know you are both of those things.

John, for as long as I live, I will find comfort in knowing that you and I can raise our heads to the sky and be looking at the same stars. And somehow, I know that I will find you again, be it in this lifetime or another.

Until we meet again: I love you, I love you, I love you.

Forever Yours,  
Sherlock Holmes


	10. Mary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Before, he felt that he already knew what he needed to know about Sherlock. But there's an empathy that comes only from learning the truth of his past; and he aches, knowing all he’s endured.

It isn’t until John notices the blurred ink on the page that he realises he’s been crying. “Sherlock,” he gasps, and that’s when he learns he’s been holding his breath as well. He closes his eyes, running his fingers over the smooth paper, allowing the words scrawled at his fingertips to sink in—the words Sherlock believed would be the last he’d ever say to him.

After this, John says nothing for a long time. None of them do. Molly stands at his side, she and the others waiting with silent strength until he's prepared to speak. 

Before, he felt that he already knew what he needed to know about Sherlock. But there's an empathy that comes only from learning the truth of his past; and he aches, knowing all he’s endured. Taking the fall for a murderer—his former mentor, a man he admired for years. Faking his own death, giving up his entire life, leaving the people he loved behind. Starting over in an unfamiliar place, never knowing if or when it would all come to a grinding halt. Falling in love, despite knowing that it would have to end. Trying all he could do to keep John at a distance, but failing, only to have his worst fears become reality. 

John's eyes finally open, carrying his gaze over to the woman on the sofa. She smiles at him softly. 

He says her name into the silence. “Mary.” 

She lifts an eyebrow, her smile fading. “Pardon?”

“In his letter, he called you Mary.” John's tone isn’t accusatory; it’s simply an observation. “Earlier, you said you use a fake name. So I assume he’s referring to you.” 

Her eyes shift to Irene, then to Molly, as if expecting them to protest, but they only await her response. “Did he?” She relaxes. “Guess he decided it was worth revealing.” She shrugs. “Yes. You’re correct. I'm Mary. But from what I’ve gathered, you don’t get too miffed over false names?”

Gabriela speaks first. “Hang on,” she says, leaning forwards on the bed, her arms linked comfortably with Irene’s. “You’re the only one here who uses a fake name, right? Why not the other girls?”

Mary looks back to John. “Did he tell you why?”

“No. Though he did mention you’re quite skilled at handling a weapon.” 

Mary presses her lips together, huffing something like a laugh. “He’s not wrong.” Her eyes move away. “I’ll spare you the details, but...” She begins to fumble nervously with the hem of her shirt. "...I also have a past I left behind. The difference is, there was nobody for me to take the fall for. In my story, I was the villain.” She pauses, carefully forming her words. “I hurt others. I took lives. I don’t think I can ever hope to redeem myself; I definitely don’t deserve it. The best I can do is spend my life protecting others from people like me.”

John watches her shift continuously in her seat, nervously wringing her hands. A former assassin, he thinks, though she's not being candid. 

“What convinced you to leave that life behind?” he asks. 

“There was a mission that went horribly wrong.” Her throat tightens. "I lost everyone I cared about. I was the only one to make it out alive." 

John wonders if he should offer her comfort; but he isn’t sure how welcome it would be. She has, as far as he knows, spent the past few weeks hating him. And while she was technically “Marci” then, the lines remain somewhat blurred. 

“I’m fortunate to have met Mycroft,” she continues. “And that he believed I could change, and offered me this mission. I’m certain I’d be locked up or dead, otherwise.” 

John lifts an eyebrow. “Mycroft?”

“Sherlock’s brother,” Molly explains. “He’s the one who enlisted the three of us. He’s a sort of...erm...government…” she stumbles over her words as if she’s forgotten them. “A… government something or other.” 

“Ah,” John acknowledges. Then, he turns his attention back to Mary, still hoping to offer her comfort, but she refuses to meet his eyes. 

“Mary,” he says gently. 

She waves him off with a dismissive hand. “It was the life I chose to live, and if karma repays me, so be it.” 

“No. It’s not that. I was...simply going to say that Sherlock is lucky to have you.” He turns back to Molly, then to Irene, and he feels grateful. “All of you.” 

“And you,” Molly chimes in. “He’s lucky that you’re his, as well.” 

_His._

“Thank you,” John says. Only a few weeks before, he thinks, Molly spoke of her unrequited love for Sherlock. John knows she was telling the truth about that; he remembers the way she looked at him. And it must have broken her heart for her to watch Sherlock falling for someone else. But here she is—just like Sarah and Gabriela, helping him, though she owes him nothing. 

John has very quickly moved from utter loneliness to having the best friends in the world.

A sudden wave of drowsiness overtakes him. He glances over at the clock; it’s already half past one in the morning.

“You should sleep,” Molly suggests, as if reading his mind. 

He nods in agreement. “Do you need a place to stay?”

“We’ve got a place,” Molly says. “Not far from here. We can grab a taxi.”

Irene stands, then, at the foot of the bed, pulling Gabriela up by her hand. She turns to her, smoothing down her silk robe. “Sorry I pulled a knife on you, darling. I promise it won’t happen next time.” She coyly looks up at her beneath her long lashes. “Unless that’s what you like.” 

In response, Gabriela clutches onto the front fold of Irene’s robe, pulling her in until their mouths meet. Irene takes in a sharp breath, cupping her hands behind Gabriela’s head to press her closer. Gabriela sucks delicately at her bottom lip, tightening her grasp. Their kiss quickly becomes passionate, tongues peeking out of their mouths as they slide them together. They seem to have forgotten that they aren’t the only two people in there.

John clears his throat pointedly, and the two women separate from each other with giddy laughter. 

“I’ll go get dressed,” Irene says as she slips away, her silk robe clinging to the curves of her body as she walks into the next room. 

Gabriela watches her as she leaves, her eyes in a daze, her lips stained with scarlet. “Good lord,” she exhales. “The Woman. I cannot _wait_ to tell Sarah about her.” 

Molly quickly glances at John, searching for an explanation. 

“Sarah Sawyer. Gabriela's girlfriend,” he explains. “They’ve got an open relationship.”

“Oh.” A smile settles on Molly’s face. “That’s cool! I’ve met Sarah a few times at the bar. She’s pretty great.” 

Gabriela turns to her, returning from her daze to give Molly her full attention. She’s brilliant at that, John thinks. She has a way of making everyone around her feel as though they’re the most important person in the room. 

“She likes you as well, Molly,” she says. “Thinks you’ve got a great smile. Talks a lot about how brilliant you are.” 

Molly’s cheeks flush with embarrassment. “Yeah?” she says sheepishly. “Tell her thank you for me, then.” 

Gabriela pushes a long, silky strand of hair behind her bare shoulder. “We ought to have you come over sometime,” she replies, her dark eyes glinting. “Perhaps you’ll be able to tell her yourself.” 

“That would be lovely!” Molly pauses, considering. Then, a doe-eyed expression as she understands what Gabriela is suggesting. “Oh!”

“Gab,” John says mildly. 

Before Gabriela can protest, Mary stands up from the sofa, taking a step towards him and holding out a hand. “John. May I see your phone?” she asks. 

He raises an eyebrow out of curiosity, but reaches into his pocket and hands it to her. She takes it, presses a few of the buttons, and passes it back. 

“I’ve given you my contact information,” she says. “If you need anything, you can call. We’ll be here in a heartbeat.” 

John gives her an appreciative nod. “Will do,” he says. 

Irene returns, wearing the same dress she arrived in, and the three women make towards the door. As Irene passes John, she pauses, leaning in to kiss him on the cheek. “Take care, darling,” she says. “See you soon.” 

He smiles. Apparently, she’s given in, and is no longer angry—either accepting that it isn’t worth the fight, or taking enormous pity on him. “I will,” he promises. 

Once they leave, Gabriela heads off to the loo for her nighttime routine. John changes into his pajamas and sinks into bed, feeling as if his body carries the weight of a bulldozer. He reads Sherlock’s letter again, and rereads it, and rereads it again. By the end of the night, he’ll surely have memorized every last word, but he can’t stop—these words are the only piece of Sherlock he’s got. 

Finally, with the letter still open, he begins to nod off. He stirs, gathering only enough energy to fold it and return it to the bedside table. 

Gabriela is lying in the bed next to him, leaning against the headboard, staring at an open book in her lap. 

“Hey,” he says drowsily to her. “How’s the book?”

“Dunno.” She closes it. “I keep reading the same page over and over, but I’m not retaining anything.” 

John glances again at the clock on the wall. It’s a quarter past two in the morning, but his mind doesn’t rest; it seems to be clinging to the events of the day.

“Gab.” He crosses his arms behind his shoulders, resting his head there like a pillow. “Did Irene tell you what happened? To Sherlock? About his past?”

She turns her head to him and nods. “She did.” 

“Good. Then you understand what I plan to do.” 

“Of course. You’re going to find him.”

Though John is flattered by Gabriela’s unwavering faith in him, he hesitates before giving her an answer. “In the letter, Sherlock begged me not to go after him.”

“You’re not going to listen to him, though.” 

“He doesn’t want me to risk my life,” John continues. “But I’m afraid it’s not his choice to make.”

With his answer, Gabriela’s face lights up, and she grins widely at him before returning to her book. 

Just then, John’s phone vibrates with a text message from an unfamiliar number.

_John?_

His heart skips a beat. His fingers fly over the keys of his phone as he types a response.

_Who is this?_

_Before I disclose anything, I need you to swear that this exchange will remain secret._

John looks back up at Gabriela, paranoid that she may suspect something, but she carries on with her book, unaware. 

He goes back to his phone. 

_I swear._

_Good. I’m in a room at your hotel. 201. Come alone._

John blinks. Meeting a stranger alone in an unfamiliar place? It feels dangerous; but he’s surprised to learn that this only spurs him onward. And yet, he won’t go without a reason.

_Why should I?_

He waits.

_I can take you to Sherlock._

***

Goosebumps form on John’s skin as he stares blankly at the message.

“You okay?” Gabriela closes her book once more and sets it onto the bedside table. “You look like you just saw a ghost.”

John fumbles, and his phone slips from his hands and into his lap. “Yeah. Yes, I’m good. I just...read a news article that was a bit disturbing.”

He doesn’t like that he’s lying to her, but he hopes it’s for good reason. 

“Yeah?” She yawns, stretching her arms over her head sleepily. “Go to Youtube and search for videos of cute, fluffy animals. That’s what I do when I need to forget about something awful.” 

As she falls back onto her pillow and shuts off the light, John's chest swells with affection for her. Her open, loving heart; the innocence she possesses, regardless of her intelligence, strength, and wit. The way people seem drawn to her like magnets, and yet she doesn’t bat them away, as other beautiful women might do; instead, making an equal place for each of them.

“Sorry,” she mumbles, yawning once more. “It suddenly hit me how sleepy I am.” 

John feels a surge of relief as she says this, gripping onto his phone. This will make things easier. “No worries at all," he says. "It's late."

“Night, John,” she says, her eyelids heavy. “Love you.” 

“Goodnight, Gabriela,” he replies, but she’s already out like a light. 

Quickly, he picks his phone back up and types his next message.

_Wait for me there. I'll see you in five minutes._

***

John slips out of bed carefully so he doesn’t wake Gabriela. He tiptoes out of the room, still wearing his pajamas. The door quietly clicks shut behind him, and he walks through the eerie, barely-lit hallway to the second floor. The walls are a dark shade of green; the coarse, aged carpet a darker shade still. 

He soon finds himself in front of room 201. He pauses before the door, and the bronze numbers tower before him, and he begins to question his own sanity. Briefly, he considers turning back—but decides against it.

Even if the person behind this door means to harm him, he’s willing to take that chance. Because it could be anyone. Even Sherlock. 

He raises a hand to knock, but before his knuckles reach the dark wood, it swings open. 

“John.” A pretty, short-haired woman looks over the threshold at him. She’s changed from her earlier black attire and is now clad in a loose-fitting shirt and boxer shorts. “I wasn’t so sure you would come. I know this is a bit sudden and strange.” 

John’s mouth drops open. “Mary? It was _you_ who texted me?"

“Shh!” she shushes him. She glares daggers into him, grabbing him by the shoulders and pulling him in roughly through the door.

“Sorry, sorry,” he apologises as he stumbles through. “Didn’t mean to reveal your identity to...whom, exactly? Though to be fair, I’m certain every word I said got soaked up by that thick, shaggy carpet." 

Mary rolls her eyes at him, but there’s no malice there. “Sit,” she commands, pointing to the sofa. 

John surveys the empty room. “Where are Irene and Molly?” 

“They've gone back,” she answers. “We decided at least one of us should stay behind for your safety, just in case. I volunteered."

John takes a seat on the sofa. He decides to waste no time. “You've brought me here to tell me more about Sherlock?"

She takes a seat next to him. “Yes.”

“Right,” he responds, releasing a gust of air. “Good.”

For a short time, Mary stares down at her hands on her knees, saying nothing. John wonders if she’s already regretting her decision. But she finally turns to him, her eyes apprehensive.

“John," she says. "As I said in the message. It’s extremely important you don’t share this information with anyone. If you did, it would mean I could no longer help you."

He nods firmly. “You have my word.”

She breathes in. “What the girls said earlier to you, about not knowing of Sherlock’s whereabouts? That’s a lie."

“Oh,” John exhales. “So you _do_ know.”

“Yes, of course. We’re Sherlock's bodyguards. We _have_ to remain close to him. But Mycroft is firm about us letting on what we know."

“I see. And what would you be risking by taking me there?”

Mary's grip tightens around her knees. “Quite a lot, I suppose. My own role in this mission, to begin with. But I’ve already risked a lot by simply getting you here.”

Her words startle John. “Getting me here? What do you mean?”

Finally, her gaze lifts, and her eyes catch his. “The string of clues.”

John sucks in a short breath, unsure of whether he’s shocked, confused, grateful—or all three. “That was you?”

She tilts her head to one side. “Yes. Well, partially. I had help.” She swallows. “But please don’t ask who helped me. I won’t tell you.”

“Mary, I—” 

“It’s alright, John,” she interrupts. “I’ve weighed the options, and it’s something I want to do.” 

John tries to understand. He could never have predicted her role in this. He was certain the clues were carried out by Molly, considering her photographs and the computer tricks; or Irene, planting her contact information for him to find. Why would Mary—who barely knows him—be the one to help him?

Then, he remembers what she shared with them earlier: her new purpose. Her endeavour to redeem herself after years of hurting others. Still—he’s not sure that he can accept her offer. He doesn’t think he’s willing to risk the life of anyone else that Sherlock holds dear. 

That’s not completely true. He’d risk his own. 

That’s when he understands Mary's willingness. Why she would reach beyond her duties to help Sherlock and himself. He nods again. “Alright.”

“He’s not far," she says quietly. "He’s staying at a house in a small city just beyond the military base.”

John lets out a low whistle. "Military? They're risking nothing this time, are they?"

Her lips curve upwards into a smile. “Mycroft may have a flair for the dramatic, but he’s a very good brother. Even though the two of them drive each other absolutely mad, Sherlock is the most important person in his life. And he’s the only family Sherlock still has after...you know.” 

John's wonders if Sherlock realises how incredibly loved he is. “What time will we go?” he asks. He’s prepared to go now, in his pajamas, if he must.

“Meet me in front of the El Cortez at seven o’clock sharp. I’ll have a car waiting for us. It shouldn’t take much longer than an hour to get there.”

“Mary.” John surges forward and wraps his arms around her shoulders. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

She tucks her arms underneath his and hugs him back. “There’s no need,” she says. “Now go try and get some sleep. I’ll see you in a couple of hours.” 

***

In the morning, when John leaves, Gabriela still sleeps. He pens a note to her and places it on the counter.

_Got an early start. Going out to explore a bit, perhaps try to enjoy the sunshine and warmth. May wander about. Just didn’t want you to worry. -John_

He looks back over at her. She’s in a deep sleep, breathing heavily. He feels a bit guilty for going into this situation without telling her, but he’s got no other choice. And he's certain that if she knew the reason, she’d understand. 

Making his way to the El Cortez on foot, John tries to wrap his head around all that’s happening. In just a couple of hours, he’ll be looking at Sherlock. He thinks of his eyes—green, blue, and gold. He can’t help but wonder: will they be harsh with anger when he arrives, or will they soften at the sight of him? 

He checks the time as he reaches his destination. 6:57. At 7:00 sharp, a black limousine pulls up to the curb, and Mary steps out. 

“Morning.” She smiles warmly at him and leans forward to give him a kiss on the cheek. “Get in. Let’s deliver you to your love.”

John grins, excitement propelling him forward as he steps into the vehicle.

As he settles in, the driver looks into the rearview mirror at him. “Good morning.” His voice is light and cheerful, and he speaks with a charming Irish lilt. “John, right? It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. I'm Jim."

John smiles politely at him. “Cheers. Thanks for doing this." 

“Jim is one of us," Mary explains. “Our chief of transportation, you might say. He handles all of the exciting tasks of getting us from point A to point B.”

“I’m happy to help." The driver turns the steering wheel, pulling the limousine out into the street. “Sherlock’s one of my closest friends. He misses you terribly, you know.”

John's chest clenches. Of course, he knows how hollow he has felt himself since Sherlock went missing, but he hasn't taken much time to consider how equally miserable Sherlock must be. 

"I miss him, too," John says. "Terribly."

Mary reaches over John’s lap and takes his hand. “I'm certain he knows. But you’ll have the chance to tell him very soon.”

“Yes.” The weight begins to lift itself from John’s chest. “Yes, yes, yes.”


	11. They Are Not You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “John,” he says with a deep sigh of resignation. “You have to go."
> 
> John takes another small step towards him. "I won't."
> 
> "You must," Sherlock insists.
> 
> "Must I?"
> 
> "You shouldn't be here."
> 
> “Perhaps not. Neither should you. You can't simply allow someone to force you into a life of exile." 
> 
> Sherlock scoffs. “Nobody forced me. I've chosen."
> 
> John’s chest stirs, his nerve driving him forward yet one more step. “And so have I.”

As they make their way through morning traffic, the drive is mostly silent. Las Vegas fades into the background, and they approach an open highway with beautiful, clear skies which extend far past what the eye can see.

John looks at Mary’s hand in his lap, still curled over his.

“It’s a funny thing,” he says. “That you’re helping me, that is. I was certain you hated me.”

Mary throws her head back and laughs. “You can blame Sherlock for that one.”

Mary laughs with her entire body; it’s boisterous and warm, and it’s impossible not to laugh with her. It’s what first attracted John to her the evening they met at The Strand. She laughed a lot that night. He didn’t want it to stop, which was a large part of why he asked her to come home with him.

He’s thankful, now, that she didn’t; still, he'd been livid with Sherlock for driving her away. Of course, that was before he followed him to the bathroom for their secret rendezvous.

“What _happened_ that night, anyway?” John asks her, referring to the night of Stamford's birthday. Now that he understands Mary's relationship to Sherlock, it makes even less sense. “Were you actually angry?”

“Of course I was bloody angry!” she says. “He was being a complete dick. To you and me both.”

John’s mouth hangs open, but he stops himself from arguing. “I was caught off guard,” he admits.

Mary laughs again, and John can’t help but join her: the two of them, reminiscing over the events of that evening as though they were old friends—it’s nice, he thinks. It feels good to have some distraction from what lies ahead of them; the anxiety that gnaws at his stomach.

“Anyway,” she continues, taking a breath in an effort to subdue her laughter. “Here’s the story: I just happened to be at the bar with my classmate, Elizabeth. Sherlock spotted you coming in and panicked. He quickly pulled me aside and demanded I give you attention. It was definitely odd, but I was already a wee bit drunk, and thought you were cute.”

"Oh." John blinks. "Thanks."

“As he requested, I brought Elizabeth over and we sat with you. The evening was magnificent, as you remember. Of course, I later learned what was happening; he was simply trying to keep his distance from you. Obviously, he didn’t think it through enough—he went insane with jealousy soon after, and came in swinging like a cat in heat.”

John bursts into laughter again. “He did, didn’t he? I sort of wanted to punch him in that snarky mouth of his.”

She lifts an eyebrow at him suggestively. “Heard you did, though. You know. With your _own_ mouth.”

John blushes and groans with embarrassment. “Does he keep anything to himself?”

“Guess the whole secret identity thing takes it all out of him,” Mary jokes. “But...he had a good reason for telling me. I wanted to see you again to apologise, but he asked me to stay away from you. It took a bit of convincing. When I could see how he felt about you, though, it all made sense.”

John feels a light thrill in his chest. There’s no way he could have fathomed Sherlock’s behaviour that night, but now he understands. He did grow a bit possessive himself when he saw Irene and Sherlock chatting at the bar. And at the time, he didn’t understand it either.

But he thinks, perhaps, he already loved Sherlock then. 

He wonders if Sherlock loved him, too, that night; pressing him against the wall and claiming him as his own, crushing their lips together until they were bruised.

“Oh." Mary exhales in awe, leaning forwards in her seat. “This drive always takes my breath away. The scenery is gorgeous.”

She’s right. The highway cuts through some type of valley; their car is dwarfed by beautiful, bright red cliffs that rise high on both sides. Beyond that, they’re wrapped in an infinite blue blanket of snow-capped mountains.

As he watches them go by, he thinks of Sherlock, staring out at the stars over red cliffs.

***

“It won't be long now.” The driver looks up. "The next exit is ours."

With every passing minute, John’s heart beats faster. 

“What do you suppose you’ll do once you’re there?” Mary asks. 

“That depends. How long have we got?”

“Not long. Thirty minutes, maximum. Any longer than that, and Mycroft will notice the cameras have been shut off, and he’ll lose his shit.” 

Thirty minutes. It won’t be enough time, but John supposes no amount of time ever could be. But there will be more time for them in the future. Somehow, he knows this. 

“I actually don’t know what I’ll do,” John admits. “I...want to tell him I love him. Kiss him. I haven’t given it much thought beyond that. He’ll probably be angry with me for showing up, so there may be a bit of time spent on apologies.”

“Nah,” Mary says. “Don’t worry about that. I’m the one he’ll be angry with. So don’t waste any quality snogging time with that.”

The limousine pulls off the interstate into a small city where there appears to be little more than palm trees and a couple of casinos. But as they continue to drive inwards, John learns that they’re actually in the suburbs. Most of the houses there appear to be new, and eerily similar: shaped like boxes, with a single storey and brightly-painted stucco. Their front yards are adorned only with gravel and cement—it must be difficult, John realises, to keep grass growing in such blistering heat. 

“Just another minute or so,” the driver says, adjusting the rearview mirror. “Are you ready?”

John wishes that his stomach would quit doing somersaults. “I don't think I'll ever be ready," he says. "But that's not going to stop me."

The driver smiles at him. "You're very brave," he remarks kindly. "It's no wonder he likes you so much."

***

The car comes to the end of a small cul de sac. A house sits before them, taller and surrounded by far more green than the others. On its side, there is a row of small, wooden chests.

“What are those?” John asks.

“Those are Sherlock’s beehives,” Mary answers. “Guess he’s always loved keeping them, but the climate in Boston wasn’t ideal. He insisted on getting them here as soon as he arrived.”

The car pulls to the curb. John’s heart stops. 

“We’ve made it,” Mary says. “I’ll walk you up, just to be safe. But don’t worry. I’ll return to the car as soon as you're safely inside."

“Mary,” John says as she reaches for the door handle. “Before we go...”

She pauses, turning back. “What is it, John?”

He takes both of her hands into his, looking her in the eye with unbridled gratitude. “No words can express how grateful I am.” He places a quick kiss onto the back of her hand. “Thank you. I will never forget this.”

“Oh, stop.” Mary pulls her hands away, but isn’t angry. “If the tears start now, they won’t stop, and that would be a terrible waste of everyone’s time.” She opens the door. “Let’s go.”

As they climb the front steps, John’s heart pumps so fast he thinks he may pass out. His thoughts have mostly gone blank other than the spinning out of Sherlock’s name on repeat. They reach the door, and Mary nods her head. John knocks. They wait. There’s no answer. 

“Hm.” Mary looks over at the window, but the shades are closed. “Try again...a bit louder perhaps?”

John knocks once more. He listens. But there are no sounds coming from inside; no voices, no footsteps approaching, nor shifting of objects. 

His heart sinks to his stomach. But then something catches his eye: a rose bush planted off to the side of the deck. A bee lands there; on one flower, and then on the next, drinking its nectar and buzzing on.

“The hives,” he says. "Let's look there."

“Brilliant!” Mary replies. “That’s likely where he is. Let’s go.”

John’s legs can’t carry him quickly enough as he runs past the lengthy driveway. He reaches the corner of the house and turns. His breath hitches.

Sherlock sits in a soft patch of green grass, legs crossed, hands in his lap. His skin is sun-kissed, and he wears a thin white cotton shirt and loose khakis. The morning sun casts light over him, causing his profile to glow like an ember. Its rays reflect on the crown of his soft head like a halo, turning the black curls into a radiant plum-colour. 

His eyes are closed as if he’s meditating. He seems so peaceful; not at all the busy, boisterous man from the bar.

John stands, frozen, just a few meters away. He always thought, when this moment came, he’d know what to do. But all he can do is watch.

Sherlock breathes steadily. In, out, in. Completely still.

Out of John falls a shaky sigh. He doesn’t mean for it to happen; he must have been holding his breath.

Sherlock twitches out of his trance, his hand flying up to swat the side of his face as though a fly has landed there.

That's when he catches John out of his peripheral view. He turns, and they lock eyes. Sherlock’s grow wide. He pulls himself up from the grass, the glow of his skin fading as if all the blood has rushed from his head.

John wonders, for a moment, if he will come rushing over to him, but he doesn’t. 

“J-John…” he chokes, as if he’s swallowing back fear. He’s terrified, John realises. 

Sherlock’s eyes then flicker over to Mary. “You’ve brought him here.”

Mary nods stiffly, pursing her lips. “Yes.” She offers no further explanation. 

Sherlock’s chest heaves lightly. His eyes wander back to John, and he clenches his fists. That’s when he moves; swiftly making his way across the grass.

John cowers at first; he has very few reasons to believe Sherlock won't hit him. But he stops just in front of John, his face and body softening a bit. “John.” His voice softens as well, but he’s still afraid. “You’re well?”

John smiles, sighing with relief. "Yes. I'm well. And you?" The formality of their words causes John to ache. His fingers twitch at his sides, eager to touch him.

Sherlock swallows thickly, his Adam’s apple bobbing at his throat, and he nods. He looks back over to Mary. “You took care of the cameras?” he asks. 

“Yes.”

“And how much time do we have before he comes looking?” John is sure Sherlock is referring to his brother.

“About twenty-eight minutes.” 

He nods at her again. A dismissal. She goes. 

“Come with me, John,” Sherlock says, gesturing towards the door. John detects nothing in his voice, but he's happy to follow him all the same.

***

A small deck behind the house leads the two of them directly into a bedroom. John assumes it's Sherlock's. They're greeted by a cold blast of air upon entering, for which John is grateful. The room is dark; sunlight has been filtered out by curtains. In the corner, John notices something propped against the back of an armchair. “A violin,” he remarks. “I forgot that you play.” He turns, expecting to see Sherlock at his side. 

Sherlock’s back is to him. He leans over a table, his knuckles white from fear. He tilts his head down, his curls falling over his face. He says nothing.

“Sherlock." John takes a step towards him, fighting back the urge to smooth his hair away from his eyes. He reminds himself that _he's_ the reason Sherlock is like this.

He waits for him to speak.

“That’s the first time I’ve heard you call me that,” Sherlock finally acknowledges, the rise and fall of his chest the only movement he makes. “My real name.”

John has nearly forgotten; the name already feels natural on his tongue. “Yes.”

“You’ve read my letter, then.”

“Yes.”

“And yet, you followed me here."

“Yes.” 

“John,” he says with a deep sigh of resignation. “You have to go."

John takes another small step towards him. "I won't."

"You must," Sherlock insists.

"Must I?"

"You shouldn't be here."

“Perhaps not. Neither should you. You can't simply allow someone to force you into a life of exile." 

Sherlock scoffs. “Nobody forced me to do anything. I've chosen."

John’s chest stirs, his nerve driving him forward yet one more step. “So have I.”

Sherlock strikes the palm of his hand against the table, no longer able to contain his emotion. “He _will_ come, John." His voice is broken. “Moriarty will come, and he will take you.” Finally, he lifts his eyes to John. “I know what it feels like to lose you. And I couldn’t bear to rob the rest of the world of your light."

"Sherlock." John can no longer bear it; he draws himself forward, filling the space between them. Taking Sherlock by the shoulders, he guides his body into alignment with his own. 

“What, John?” Sherlock cups John's chin with his long, trembling fingers. Carefully, he tilts it upwards, and he leans down until their foreheads are pressed together. Their eyes fall closed, and they breathe one another in. 

“I’m not going anywhere,” John murmurs. He reaches his hands up, softly cupping the back of Sherlock’s head. “I know you believe that your loneliness will protect you, but it won’t. Just look at all of the people in your life who love you."

Sherlock exhales a deep sigh. “But they are not _you.”_

“I understand,” John reassures him. “And we are going to fight together on this, and we are going to make it out together alive. But you’ve got to accept that nothing you say will convince me to leave you.”

Sherlock leans away a bit, regarding him. John can see every piece of him, now. All that was broken before, which he has kept hidden, returning to the surface. He strokes the soft skin of Sherlock’s jaw, vowing that he will do all he can to put his broken pieces back together.

He brushes his fingertips against Sherlock’s cheek, and Sherlock winces in pain. John pulls away. 

“It’s fine,” Sherlock remarks. “Just a bee sting.”

The room is dark, but John can tell the sting has become swollen. “I’ll put some ice on it, just to be sure,” he offers. “Sit down, please.”

"John,” Sherlock argues. “Really, it's not a problem. It happens all the time.”

John presses lightly at Sherlock’s shoulder, sending him stumbling backwards the tiniest bit. _“Sit.”_

Sherlock crinkles his forehead, half angry, but he doesn’t object. John walks to the kitchen to collect a bag of ice.

***

When he returns, Sherlock sits quietly at the foot of the bed. The look he gives him as he approaches is so tender that it steals John’s breath. But he carries on with his caretaking, bracing Sherlock’s chin and setting the bag of ice softly on his cheekbone. Sherlock winces again at the shock of the cold, and John chuckles at how innocent, almost childlike he seems.

“The great Sherlock Holmes," he jokes. "Defeated by a honeybee." 

He expects Sherlock to respond with his typical sharp wit and playful defiance. He doesn’t. He meets John's eyes, instead, and doesn't look away. 

“I’ve missed you, John,” he says.

The vulnerability of Sherlock's words—of this entire moment—sets John’s heart off dancing. He begins to realise the intimacy they’ve become encased in. Sherlock gazes at him expectantly as John holds his head in his hands, their faces inches apart. 

John's eyes fall below Sherlock's neck. His shirt hangs off one shoulder, unbuttoned, exposing the smooth glow of his skin and the collarbone that peeks out above it. John can’t stop himself; he releases Sherlock’s chin, tracing the collarbone with his fingertip, dragging it up to his neck and back to his jawline. 

Sherlock moans quietly at John’s touch. When their eyes once again meet, his are filled with a wild desperation. His face is flushed; his lips are parted, and his pulse leaps at his throat.

“John,” he whispers. 

It all feels like a singular movement. The bag of ice falls to the ground. Sherlock reaches for John at the foot of the bed, pulling him into his lap. John wraps his legs around his waist, and their mouths find each other, starved for one another’s taste—hot and sweet, desperate and longing.

Sherlock releases a gust of air, somewhere between a moan and a gasp, his hands clasping fervently onto the small of John’s back, sweeping his body closer; no amount of space between the two of them will be acceptable. John fumbles at the remaining buttons of Sherlock’s loose shirt, pressing his upper body backwards onto the bed as he undoes them. He pulls the shirt off, draping his body over Sherlock’s, cool skin on skin. 

Sweet murmurs of affection, spurred by longing, lodge in their throats, captured by one another’s mouths. They cling desperately to every part of each other they can reach, as if they’re discovering the curves of their bodies for the first time. They can’t contain the heat of their passion; of all the yearning of the past and all the yearning that they know will come. They kiss until their lips are bruised; dragging their tongues over bare skin for relief, but leaving tiny welts and bruises there as well. They rock together, lips returning to each other as the curves of their bones bury into soft skin.

Their bodies have been entwined countless times before, but this time, it’s different. They don't speak of not knowing when they will see each other again; but they don't need to. It’s spoken in the way that they drink one another in, wrapped up together like blankets. 

John sweeps his fingers relentlessly through Sherlock’s hair as the two of them work off their trousers; he bites his bottom lip, releasing a shaky sigh of anticipation. He peppers Sherlock with tender kisses; his dexterous fingers filling him with warmth as he stretches him open. After one final kiss, Sherlock wraps his legs around him, sliding over him like a glove. 

John fits easily into Sherlock's heat; it’s a path his body knows well.

The room erupts with sounds of pleasure. Sherlock bucks up into John, clenching around him with everything he has. John hardens his abdomen, slowing the rush of pleasure while gathering all of his strength to push back. Sherlock uses his legs to pull John in deeper, deeper, until they find a rhythm that works for the both of them, graceful and passionate as dancers on a stage.

John has never felt anything like this. As he drives himself into Sherlock, everything else fading away, his entire body is lit with more pleasure than he ever thought possible. Sherlock has never been more beautiful than right now; head thrown back wantonly onto the pillow. Shadows dance over his exposed neck and throat; his curls are tangled and matted to his forehead with sweat, and his naked body surges beneath him like ocean waves. 

The tug at John’s abdomen becomes impossible to ignore. He dips his head, pressing his lips against Sherlock’s throat; against his jaw; at his earlobe. He threads their fingers together, softly guiding Sherlock’s downwards past his abdomen and between his legs. Sherlock takes the hint, wrapping his fingers around his own hardness to take control of his pleasure. 

“John,” he murmurs, the first coherent thing to come from either of their mouths since they fell into the bed. 

The sound of his name alone sends John. His thrusts gain speed. Sherlock is an observant man; he notices his effect immediately. Nuzzling against John’s ear, he playfully whispers his name again, holding onto the vowel until it becomes a moan.

Surprisingly, it’s Sherlock’s body that goes still first. He chokes out John’s name again, clenched and throbbing around John’s hardness, grunting with pleasure as he wrings out his release. 

John rocks into him with all of the speed and force that he can muster, and that’s when Sherlock tells him he loves him.

He utters these words, his body still trembling through his orgasm; and then he repeats them, the words a hot gust of breath in John’s ear.

John can hear his blood singing. He bucks into Sherlock one final time, the low roar of his climax rumbling under his skin until at last, it erupts like thunder. And just as it begins, Sherlock takes his face in his hands, pulling him downward for a messy kiss; his hands still sticky from his own release. It’s the most powerful orgasm John has ever experienced; throbbing so fiercely it sends tiny spasms down his thighs and up his lower abdomen. He doesn’t know how long it goes on for; but as soon as he feels he’s wrung himself dry, Sherlock’s light gasps of pleasure seem to drag it further on.

The second John is spent, he collapses onto Sherlock. His knees burn from sliding over the bed continuously; his arms are weak from holding himself upwards. 

But he relaxes into Sherlock’s warm, smooth skin, catching his breath.

Sherlock presses a light kiss to his sweaty temple. John tries not to think of the ticking clock moving them unfailingly towards the end of their time together. So as they lie there, breaths becoming aligned, he simply closes his eyes to savor this crystalline moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate chapter title: The One Where They Finally Have Sex in a Bed 😆


	12. Spider

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With a wicked grin, he pulls the trigger.

Bliss. It’s one of many words describing the way John feels right now as he lies next to Sherlock. Complete; as if he’s been waiting his entire life for this, and not only a few weeks. 

He doesn’t say this aloud. Where would he even begin? What are two people to talk about when they’ve got less than ten minutes before they part ways indefinitely? 

Neither of them seems to know for sure, but the answer appears to be: nothing. So they simply continue lying there, soaking each other in with every one of their senses.

***

Sherlock’s arm sprawls beneath John’s head like a pillow. John traces the hair below Sherlock’s navel with his forefinger; Sherlock traces the hair on John’s head with his.   
  
Two minutes pass.

“Sherlock?” John’s gaze shifts to a framed photograph on Sherlock’s nightstand. 

“Mm?” Sherlock drowsily replies. 

“Who’s that standing next to you in the picture?” The man looks familiar to John: long nose. Thin lips. Condescending glare. 

Sherlock glowers at the mere mention of this man, and John suddenly notes how similar the two of them look. 

“It’s my tiresome elder brother, Mycroft,” Sherlock says with a roll of his eyes. 

“Hm.” John tries to craft a response only _implying_ that Sherlock’s brother kidnapped, threatened, and interrogated him—but Sherlock figures it out before he does.

“Oh, God.” Sherlock groans. “You’ve met him.”

“...Yes.”

“Did he drag you off somewhere to question you about me?” Sherlock asks, but he already knows the answer. “I’m sorry.” 

“It’s fine,” John reassures him. Mycroft seems to bring out a side of Sherlock John’s never seen: sulky and a bit petulant; the superb level of annoyance reserved only for beloved family members. 

“You know what?” John continues. “Perhaps it wasn’t even him. Molly says he works for the British government, but the man I met is just some arsehole police officer in Las Vegas.” 

Another pained groan from Sherlock. “That’s him. Absolutely. It’s one of the gimmicks he uses to lure people in; the supremely corrupt police department in Vegas are so indebted to him that they allow it.” 

“Oh?” John pretends to be shocked. 

Sherlock’s face goes white. “He didn’t… tell you any embarrassing stories about me, did he?” 

John chuckles. “No. He just warned me to stay away from you. You know, the typical protective big brother speech.” 

Sherlock scowls; John finds it endearing. “I will kill him.” 

John sets a kiss on his forehead. “Don’t bother. Obviously, it didn’t work.” He kisses Sherlock’s neck. “...And I can think of _so_ many other ways to spend the next few minutes that don’t involve your brother.” He kisses Sherlock’s shoulder. 

Sherlock places his hand beneath John’s chin and lifts it upwards, kissing him softly on the lips. He then leans away from John, cupping his face in his hands. He beams down at him. “John.”

“What?” John asks giddily. “What is it?”

Sherlock gently tilts John’s head to one side, and then to the other. “Are you aware of how lovely you are?”

John feels an unbidden heat climbing up his neck. “I—I don’t know.” Suddenly, he feels timid. “Would you like to tell me?”

“You’re so lovely that it’s actually painful to tear one’s eyes from you. I know; I speak from experience.” 

John bows his head slightly, and then he meets Sherlock’s eyes again.

“Every moment that I’m not with you,” Sherlock continues, “...I am reminded of you. Every laugh is your laugh; every smile, your smile. Every taste of my own lips brings memories of them on yours. Blue-grey mountaintops may be the look that you’ve given me in a candlelit room. In the evening, a golden sunset may turn into the many flecks of gold in your irises. Or a rosy sunrise—the colour of your skin, flushed, as it is now. John, you have left a powerful imprint on me.”

For a few seconds, John is rendered speechless, and all he can do is smile at him tenderly. “I love you, Sherlock,” he finally says. “I know my words aren’t as…poetic as yours. But they’re the words I came here to say, and I just want to be sure that you hear them.”

“I do,” Sherlock responds. “And believe me—those words, coming from your mouth, are poetry. I love you.” 

And the clock ticks on.

***

John is learning that saying goodbye to Sherlock doesn’t get any easier. 

After Sherlock excuses himself to get dressed, John slowly and ruefully pulls his own clothes on. They immediately return to each other’s arms, clinging to each other’s bodies like a child would to a blanket. The final minutes slip away from them, and the sadness begins falling upon them in waves. 

“Perhaps if we’re completely still and silent,” John suggests, his face buried into the crook of Sherlock’s neck. “...the rest of the world will vanish, and we can stay here forever.” 

Sherlock breathes, rustling the hair on John’s head. “We can try.” 

John closes his eyes as he squeezes Sherlock closer. The two of them use every last drop of energy to press their bodies together, filling their brains with memories to hold on to.

“When will I see you again?” Sherlock asks. 

John lifts his head to look at him. “You’re alright with that? You’re no longer going to try and keep me away?”

Sherlock purses his lips. “I don’t think it’s possible. You’re very stubborn, you know.” 

John laughs. “So I’ve been told.”

“It’s quite sexy,” Sherlock states, tucking a short strand of hair behind John’s ear. 

John grins, but his smile quickly fades to a defeated sigh. “I don’t know when we’ll see one another again, Sherlock. But it will happen; you have my word. You’re stuck with me. Wherever you run off to, I’m going to follow. Whenever you fall, I’m going to hold your hand. I’ll scale mountains with you, swim oceans...I’ll hop onto a spaceship to the bloody moon. It doesn’t matter. We’re in this together.”

Sherlock sets a lingering kiss to the crown of John’s head. They hold on until they no longer can. 

“It’s time,” John says, and they open the door to the rest of the world. 

***

Mary awaits them at the top of the driveway; John and Sherlock walk over to meet her. Somewhat unexpectedly, Sherlock sets a hand on her shoulder and kisses her cheek. “Thank you for doing this,” he says. 

Mary sets her hand over his. “I’m happy to.” She turns to John. “John, could you excuse us for a moment? I’ve got some business to discuss with Sherlock. The limousine is waiting for you.” 

John takes a final, lingering glimpse at Sherlock. “I’ll be seeing you soon,” he promises him. 

“Yes,” Sherlock says. “You will.” 

***

Text message

Today 8:09 AM

Sender: Molly Hooper

_Good morning! Just checking in. Irene and I can totally drop by if you need anything. Just give us a ring!_  
  


Text message

Today 8:17 AM

Sender: Gabriela Gomez

_Heyyyy honey! Hope you’re having fun exploring. Gonna head out to visit my mom and brothers! Probably be back after dinner. And Sarah says helloooo and she misses you! Love you xoxo_

Text message

Today 8:30 AM

Sender: Mike Stamford

_Hey mate. Haven’t heard from you in a few days. You alive?_

Text message

Today 8:41 AM

Sender: Harry Watson-Carter

_Hey, bro!!! A little birdie told me you’re in Vegas? You didn’t run off to secretly get married, did you? I will literally kill you if you do that without me there. Anyway! I’m super happy you’re doing something besides studying and sulking. You’d better have an amazing time. Call me when you get the chance, I want to hear all about it. I love you. Clara sends her love, as well. CALL ME._

***

John walks down the driveway, deciding he’ll let himself cry once he’s returned to the car—not a second before. He doesn’t want to risk Sherlock overhearing him. So he chokes back his emotions, reaching for his phone and any distraction it might provide.

His notifications are bursting with text messages...all from people he loves, and his misery actually slips away for a few seconds. He’s very fortunate, he thinks. The past few weeks have been difficult enough, but they would have been impossible to face without his friends. 

Stamford—his best friend since freshman year of uni; the person he’s leaned on the most. Sarah and Gabriela, who have been profoundly generous with their time and effort. Sweet, open-hearted Molly, who trusts him deeply. Even Irene has proven to be a significant part of his support system, though they got off to a rocky start.

And last but not least—Mary, wonderful Mary. She has done so much to bring himself and Sherlock together again. 

Sherlock is safe and protected by his loved ones; that’s another reason to be grateful. And John loves Sherlock, and Sherlock loves John, and there is nothing that can come between them—of that, John is now certain.

John reaches the bottom of the driveway, but the limousine is not there. “Jim?” he calls out. 

That’s when the sound of a bullet shatters the air. 

***

Some say that while a person is experiencing a traumatic event, time slows down—even stops. But today, for John, time disappears. One second, he’s in front of the house, and he hears a gunshot— _ohgodohgod is anyone hurt ohgod Sherlock_ —the very next, he’s behind the house, kneeling onto the floor of the deck. His throat is raw as if he’s already been screaming for hours. His lungs are tight— _god, I can’t breathe._ Mary, sweet Mary—is still at the top of the driveway, pointing her gun— _the_ gun. 

But this can’t be Mary. John does not recognize her. Her eyes are cold and grey like a muddy lake, and she looks upon the body of her victim—their beloved Sherlock—with absolute indifference. 

_Must put pressure on the wound—must stop the bleeding—_ John rips the fabric of Sherlock’s shirt, and he thinks he’s screaming at him— _Sherlock, say something! Sherlock!_ But Sherlock can’t say anything, because there’s a bullet in his chest, and Mary put it there— _and I put Mary here._

He doesn’t know how long he works at Sherlock’s upper body, trying to remove his clothes— _why won’t they come off?—_ He claws and digs at them until his fingertips are numb and his nails are bleeding, but he still can’t get past the final layer.

“You won’t be able to help him.” Mary speaks as though she’s conveying the simplest, most basic truth. “When it’s my intention to kill, I never miss.” _The sky is blue. Two plus two is four. Sherlock Holmes is going to die._

John presses down on Sherlock’s chest, looking for a wound to cover, anywhere, anywhere— _why the bloody fuck am I getting this medical degree if I can’t save a bloody life?_

“Why?!” John screams at Mary, although he doesn’t recognise his own voice. “Why would you hurt him, when you’ve sworn to protect him? He trusted you!”

“I’m a mercenary. My loyalty goes to the highest bidder.” Her hollow voice pierces through the rage buzzing in John’s ears. “And Mycroft was outbid.”

“By whom?” John asks.

She finally lowers her pistol to the ground. “Who do you think, John?”

Moriarty. 

A life for a life.

Paralysed and suffocated by a blanket of grief, John collapses onto Sherlock’s body, and he weeps.

***

“ _William, look at me. Whatever it is you need to say, just say it.”_

_“I’m afraid I have fallen quite deeply in love with you.”_

_“Say that again?”_

_"I'm in love with you, John. I didn't intend for it to happen."_

_“I love you, too.”_

~~~

_“I’d like to kiss you until the stars come out.”_

" _Me, too.”_

~~~

“ _Sorry to bother you. It’s just that...I would give anything to be able to kiss you on New Year’s Eve. Either way, Happy New Year. But I hope you will. Call me, that is. I miss you.”_

~~~

“ _Even as I write this, I’m missing you more than I can begin to describe. It’s quite strange, actually. I feel as though I’ve spent most of my life missing you—even before I knew you.”_

~~~

“ _You continue to surprise me.”_

“ _Good. I hope that I can continue to surprise you for a very long time.”_

~~~

“ _John. Knowing you has taught me what it feels like to want something with my entire being. Never in this life have I felt a passion so deep.”_

~~~

“ _I need you to swear that you will not try to find me. Because Moriarty is going to find me as well. And he will go for my heart, and then, he will go for my life. And he cannot, must not know you are both of those things.”_

~~~

“ _For as long as I live, I will find comfort in knowing that you and I can raise our heads to the sky and be looking at the same stars. And somehow, I know that I will find you again, be it in this lifetime, or another one, or another universe altogether. Until we meet again: I love you, I love you, I love you.”_

***

_Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum._

John’s face is buried in Sherlock’s chest, drenched in tears. 

_Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum._

He hears something. His eyes fly open, and he looks down at Sherlock’s sternum—his own fingers bloody from the wound.

No. They aren’t bloody from the wound; they’re bloody from disuse. From relentlessly clawing at Sherlock’s chest.

_There is no blood from the wound._

His vision is blurred from tears. But as he glides his fingers over Sherlock’s chest, he finally feels it: a tiny bullet. It’s lodged into Sherlock— _there is no blood from the wound_ —but it doesn’t appear to have pierced his skin. 

_There is no gunshot wound._

He didn’t even take Sherlock’s pulse. Sherlock was lying there on the ground, and Mary had a gun, and John was so completely overcome with panic and grief and confusion that he didn’t take Sherlock’s pulse.

He wraps his fingers over Sherlock’s thin wrist, and when he feels the life flowing beneath his skin, relief overtakes him, and he nearly collapses again.

John sets his other hand onto Sherlock’s chest, and onto the protective vest that he wears. Though it’s less of a vest and more of an undershirt. John has never seen anything like it, but he’s sure—

Out of nowhere, Sherlock wraps his own fingers around John’s, squeezing them lightly. He’s attempting to convey a message.

“ _Don’t let Mary know,”_ he’s saying. _“She must continue to think I’m dead.”_

Mary stands a few yards away, still—and the wooden columns of the deck partially cover her view. It’s completely possible, John realises, for her to be fooled; he’s just got to keep her from coming closer.

He pulls his body from the floor, chest heaving, fists clenched with agony and rage. He hasn’t stopped shedding tears; although he knows Sherlock is alive, his heart has yet to catch up. 

“Mary.” He spits her name from his mouth, sharp as a razor, his voice still ragged. He begins to step towards her. She doesn’t raise her gun; she doesn’t even lift a finger. This does nothing to alleviate John’s fury.

“You—you told us all that you’ve changed,” he says. “That you wanted to save others from people like you.” It’s a benign statement, far from the seething words on the tip of his tongue—but he’s buying time. Soon, Mycroft will know something is wrong, and the police will arrive.

Mary shrugs.“It became tedious,” she says dully. “If Moriarty hadn’t come to me, I probably would have died from the boredom.”

John’s lips tremble, overflowing with venom. “Pity that you didn’t.”

Mary tilts her head as she callously regards him. “If I’d done that, you never would have seen him again.” 

“Do you want my _gratitude_?” John barks at her. “You killed him, you vile, eroded shell of a person! You will pay for what you’ve done to him. There are people out there who will find you, and they will not let you live.”

The corners of her mouth turn upwards an infinitesimal amount; barely detectable from where John stands. It’s the only hint of emotion she’s shown since pulling the trigger. “I’m not afraid of Mycroft. And do you think that you’re the first to proclaim such a thing? That I’ll pay for what I’ve done? I’ve heard the same threat, many, many times. And here I am—still standing.”

When the second gunshot rips through the air, Mary’s mouth falls open. Blood rips from her chest, and she gasps as her body arches forwards, dropping to the ground.

Time skips again. One second, John is looking down at her body—and the pool of blood forming beneath it. The next, Sherlock—who is very much alive—is embracing him fiercely, shaking like a leaf.

“I thought you’d been shot,” he chokes out, touching every piece of John that he can, just to be sure he’s still there.

“Fucking Christ, Sherlock. I thought _you_ had been shot!” He presses his lips onto Sherlock’s neck, kissing the skin, feeling his pulse, savouring his taste and scent. “How did you—when did you even—?”

“I’ve been hunted for the past three years, and I’ve got a brother high up in the government. I have access to state of the art protection. Nobody ever suspects an apparently plain undergarment.”

John continues to kiss him wherever his lips will reach—he’s so very relieved, so happy to be holding him, and he’s not going to let him go.

“John?”

“Yes, Sherlock?”

“We should probably put your gun away, just to be safe.”

John pauses, his mouth against Sherlock’s jaw. “I don’t have a gun with me, Sherlock.”

“The gun you used to shoot Mary. Where is it?”

John feels a stab in his chest. “I didn’t shoot Mary.”

Flashbacks from earlier this morning suddenly fill John’s head. Jim, the limo driver. His polite smile; the Irish accent. “Sherlock is one of my best friends,” he said.

The grass behind them rustles softly, as if there is a breeze. But there is no breeze today.

“John.” Sherlock’s body goes stiff, like he’s been turned to stone; his skin becomes cold. 

“Yeah?” John is certain that they have both stopped breathing.

“I need you to listen to me carefully.” Sherlock’s voice is crushed with raw terror. “Do exactly as I say—don’t ask questions.” 

John hesitates. “Sherlock…”

Sherlock brushes a quick, barely-there kiss onto John’s temple. “Please. John, can you do this for me?”

John finally releases the breath he’s been holding. “Do what?”

“Let go of me. Walk directly through the back door into my house. Fasten the deadbolt. You’ll find three doors—deadbolt each one. Go down into the cellar. Wait there until the police arrive. Do not open the doors for _anyone_. Do you understand?”

“But Sherlock, you—“

“It isn’t me that he wants, John. Please. Will you go?”

John squeezes his eyelids tightly and takes a deep breath. “Yes. I will.”

***

The man stands in silence next to the lifeless body of Mary, towering above her like a spectre. He doesn’t notice her; his attention is drawn elsewhere.

In him, there is a void—a hollowness that can’t be put into words. He is not plain—but his smooth, childlike features are offset by his stern jaw and soulless onyx eyes. He’s slight, but his shadow stretches across the garden like the legs of a spider. 

It’s likely that most of the time, he goes unnoticed by others. Perhaps he sits besides a mother with her child in her lap on their way to Trafalgar Square. Perhaps he calls for takeout and tips generously, giving them a polite nod and a wave. Perhaps you saw him crossing the street once; or waiting for a lift to the fourth floor. Perhaps he held the door for you while you carried your bags; and then you continued your day, unaffected. You did not run away, nor warn others of his presence. 

He doesn’t hang heavy over your head like a storm cloud, seeping joy from your life. He doesn’t appear in your nightmares, or in your waking hours—when a flash of dark hair and a grey suit sends you into an irreversible panic. 

He hasn’t taken it all from you. Unless you’re Sherlock Holmes. 

“Sherlock.” If the devil himself were to utter the name, it would be less wicked.

Sherlock refuses to put his emotions on display; he holds his head high to meet the man’s eyes. 

“Moriarty.”

Moriarty leers at him. “My brilliant friend,” he says, his smile gaping like a clown’s. “How I’ve missed you.” 

Sherlock grinds his teeth together. “We are not friends.”

Moriarty tosses his head back and laughs; it’s not a pleasant sound. “Just as impertinent as ever, Mister Holmes.” 

He begins to stroll across the grass towards the deck where Sherlock stands. Sherlock braces himself. 

“Shhh.” Moriarty hushes him. “Relax. Today is not your day to die.” He shifts his eyes to finally acknowledge Mary. “ _She_ didn’t listen to the rules, though. And as the rules clearly state—if you don’t follow the rules—you die.” 

“What rules?” 

“Don’t kill Sherlock yet, I told her!” His voice is suddenly very loud. “We aren’t ready! Don’t mess up the plan, Miss Morstan!” The stairs creak as he climbs the deck. “She never liked to do things if it wasn’t her way. Shame. She was one of my most talented killers.” 

He steps closer towards Sherlock. “First things first, though!” He returns to his pleasant Irish lilt. “Here’s what I was envisioning: you watch as I torture that...angry little pet of yours. John, was it?” Another step closer. “Seems the two of you get on quite well. Should I be jealous?”

“No.” Sherlock still refuses to break eye contact or pull away. “You should leave.”

“Funny thing.” Moriarty’s voice drops to a furtive whisper. “I know I delivered John earlier. So where has he run off to?” He steps closer still, his predatory gaze drifting up and down Sherlock’s body. “I would love to play with the both of you—but he can watch, instead, if that’s more his thing.”

“Go, or you will die,” Sherlock sneers.

Moriarty pauses directly in front of Sherlock. He lifts a hand, gently tracing Sherlock’s jawline with his forefinger. He tilts his head slightly, regarding him with the eyes of a hungry lion sizing up its prey. “You’re very taken with him, aren’t you? Then tell me something.” His voice drops quieter, and he speaks with a chilling tenderness. “Do you allow _him_ to take you on your knees against the wall, spreading you open with your arms pinned above your head? Does _he_ pull your hair while you drive your fingernails into his skin, begging him not to stop? Does he—?”

“ _Enough_.” Sherlock raises his right hand and slaps Moriarty across the face. 

Moriarty raises his hand to his own cheek, his expression startled but amused. “Ooooh,” he croons. “Still like it a bit rough, then, darling?”

Sherlock takes another swing at him. But Moriarty quickly catches him by the wrist and shoulder, spins him forwards, and pins him against himself with his arms. 

“Why are you fighting this?” Moriarty breathes steadily onto the back of Sherlock’s neck. “Did you ever doubt I would find you again?”

Sherlock’s voice remains steady. “When did you learn...about me?”

Moriarty exhales a puff of laughter into his ear. “Honey, I’ve always known. I’ve got eyes and ears all over the place.” 

Sherlock swallows thickly. “Then why haven’t you already killed me?”

A low rumble of laughter. “Because you hadn’t met _him_ yet. And now that you’ve carelessly allowed yourself to fall in love, I cannot wait to rip the two of you apart.”

“He’s done nothing,” Sherlock says. “Please, do not hurt him. Take my life instead.”

“Oh! I would love that. Obviously! Or you could just make it easier and take your own. His lips brush against Sherlock’s earlobe. “While I force him to watch.” Slowly, he begins to move his fingers down Sherlock’s abdomen, resting them over the zip of his trousers. “But why don’t we start by giving him a different type of show?”

“Don’t,” Sherlock snarls. 

Moriarty ruts his hips forwards into Sherlock. “We could do it quietly, if you like.”

“The police will be here _very_ soon,” Sherlock utters. “And now that they’ve honed in on your whereabouts, there is nothing keeping you alive.”

“Hmm.” Moriarty teases at Sherlock’s trouser button. “You think you’re the only one with a team of people keeping you alive? That’s precious. But can you really trust any of them, Sherlock? I convinced Miss Morstan to come to my side first. Who’s gonna be next?” He leans down and whispers into Sherlock’s ear. “What if it’s John?”

“I wouldn’t bet on that.” A cracking noise; something thrashing against bone. Moriarty releases his grip, and Sherlock spins, finding himself face to face with John. John’s holding Moriarty around the neck beneath one arm, pointing a gun to his temple with the other. It appears to be Mary’s gun—the one he’s just used to strike Moriarty on the head with.

Sherlock can’t hold down a smile when he sees John, but he forces the smile away just as quickly. 

“Ugh!” Moriarty sighs dramatically. “Finally, you decide to show up!” He wriggles his body a bit, but John strengthens his grip, pressing the gun into the side of his head. “Although it’s a bit alarming that you waited so long. I thought you would come the moment I laid a finger on him.”

John ignores Moriarty; glancing over at Sherlock. _You ok?_

_Yes._

“But in all seriousness—“ Moriarty clears his throat. _This_ is the love of your life, Sherlock? He’s more...diminutive than I imagined. A pity, really.” He side-eyes John, who still has him in a tight hold. “You think you can satisfy him, John? You wouldn’t believe what he can do, this one. I had him first, you know.” 

Sherlock exchanges another glance with John. _He is only trying to goad you._

John nods. _I know. It’s fine. Go._

“Mm-hmm,” John responds, cool as a cucumber. “Now was that...right before he faked his own death and fled to another continent, just so he wouldn’t have to see you again?” He lets out a low whistle. “Hate to tell you, mate, but it sounds like he’s not that into you.” 

“And how are things working out for _you_ , John? Did he not run from you as well, and beg you not to follow him?” Moriarty snickers. “And here you are, the both of you in danger.” 

John abruptly tightens his hold on him. “That’s your interpretation? Because right now, it seems I’m the one holding the pistol to your head.” He cocks the gun, if only to demonstrate a point. 

“Ohhhh,” Moriarty groans, rolling his eyes incredulously. “You are absolutely right. I’ve really bollixed this one up, haven’t I?” He lets out a long, brooding sigh. “Guess there will have to be a change of plans.” 

Without any warning, he lunges his lower body backwards, knocking John away. Before John can react, Moriarty whirls around, wrapping the fingers of one hand tightly around John’s wrist, and the other around the gun. He jerks the weapon from John’s grip and turns it towards himself, pressing it into his own ribs. 

With a wicked grin, he pulls the trigger. 


	13. Always, Always, Always

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “How do you know all of this?” 
> 
> “I don’t know. I see. Would you like to see as well?” He smiles at John, then—and with that smile, John suddenly feels no fear. 
> 
> "I think I would.”
> 
> “Good.” Sherlock holds out both hands, palms facing up. John gingerly places his own atop Sherlock’s; they’re soft and stained with dye from the dandelions. 
> 
> “Close your eyes, John,” he instructs. 
> 
> John lets his eyes fall closed.

John dreams that he and Sherlock are children again. They’re in a vast meadow of lush emerald grass, and they're surrounded by brightly-coloured dandelions. Seated together, they lean against a gigantic oak tree, looking out into a cloudless cerulean sky that’s as large as the land. 

“I’ve never had this dream before,” John remarks, his adolescent voice brimming with awe. 

“I find it funny when you say that.” Sherlock is distracted by the dandelion he twirls between his fingers. He’s no older than twelve or so. His reddish-brown hair is just as curly—if a bit messier—at this age; his jawline is soft, his cheeks bronzed with freckles. 

“When I say what?” John inquires.

“That you’re dreaming.” Sherlock blows a puff of air, sending white seeds from their stem into the breeze. 

“But this _is_ a dream." 

“Of course it’s not, silly.” Sherlock carelessly flicks the dandelion away and reaches for another. 

John frowns. “Then why are we—” He pauses. A surge of panic. “Sherlock, are we...dead?”

“Sometimes.” Sherlock continues toying with the stem, plucking seeds from it. “Sometimes not. It really just depends.”

John finds his answer unsettling, but moreso, he’s exasperated by his aloofness. “What do you mean _sometimes?”_ He clutches onto Sherlock's thin shoulders, shaking him lightly. 

Sherlock finally looks up at him; his green and blue and gold eyes wide and angelic. There is an indescribable wisdom within them, pulling John in as if they possess their own gravity. It would be jarring if he didn’t, somehow, still appear so innocent. 

“How quickly you forget, John,” he says with an impish amusement. “Even when you’re constantly visited by memories.” 

John releases his grip, but he can't look away. “Memories?”

“Of you. Of us. Every time you sleep, they come to you, do they not?” 

“Dreams,” John reaffirms. "They're dreams."

“There is no difference,” Sherlock insists. “Where do you suppose dreams come from?”

“But those things never actually happened. It can’t be a memory, Sherlock, if there’s nothing to remember.”

“That’s where you’re incorrect.” Sherlock flicks away the second dandelion and adjusts his body so he’s facing John. “You believe that time is linear; that only the past can be remembered. But in fact, time and space move forwards and backwards and up and down and all sorts of ways. A memory can occur tomorrow, or yesterday, or six thousand years from now, or it can even be happening right this instant. It may be here, or in another universe, or in fifteen universes at once.”

John feels frustration burning at his eyes as he tries to comprehend all that this young Sherlock is saying. He blinks, and with the flutter of his eyelids, everything around them changes. The empty blue sky suddenly becomes fuchsia, and it contains three golden suns; the grassy meadow becomes an enormous desert of nothing but crystal white sand.

“Sherlock,” John exhales. “Is this real?”

“You’ll come to learn that anything can be real,” Sherlock explains. “All that has been imagined or created—no matter how absurd or incomprehensible—it exists somewhere in time, on some astral plane.” 

“But who imagines these...universes?” John asks as a glowing meteorite soars across the sky. It dissolves into the atmosphere so quickly that John isn’t completely certain it was there. 

“This is, of course, the one mystery that our minds cannot yet comprehend,” Sherlock responds. 

“How do you know all of this?” 

“I don’t know. I see. Would you like to see as well?” He smiles at John, then—and with that smile, John suddenly feels no fear. 

"I think I would.”

“Good.” Sherlock holds out both hands, palms facing up. John gingerly places his own atop Sherlock’s; they’re soft and stained with dye from the dandelions. “Close your eyes, John,” he instructs. 

John lets his eyes fall closed.

And the moment he does, memories pour into his mind—if that’s what they can even be called. They aren't _his_ memories exactly; they're more like a state of infinite awareness—of every life, every moment in time, every universe in which he and Sherlock have lived. And there are thousands and thousands and thousands. He sees Buckingham Palace, of course, and the pool, and John’s wedding, and the Victorian flat—but there are countless other memories as well. In some, John is a medic during a war in Afghanistan, or in Iraq, or in Vietnam, or in worlds he doesn’t even recognise. In some, he and Sherlock are parents. A baby girl—or sometimes, it’s a boy, or sometimes both. Sometimes, John and Sherlock even give birth themselves. In some memories, they simply have different occupations; surfers, tennis players, actors, park rangers, detectives. In others, they’re mythological creatures; vampires or mermaids or faeries. They're pirates. They're Greek gods. They're alpha and beta and omega. They're pansexual, homosexual, bisexual, cis, and trans. Like Sherlock said—everything imaginable. 

But there is one constant; one unwavering truth: in each one, their lives are shared. Sometimes it's for a great deal of time, sometimes not. But they always, always, always find each other. 

John's eyes fly open, and he pulls away with a gasp. He and Sherlock are back in the bright, sunny field.

“That was beautiful,” he exhales. “Thank you for showing me.”

“You’re welcome. But there is a final one I must show you; one you already know well.” He holds his hands out once more.

"Yes,” John agrees. “Please. Take me back.” He takes Sherlock's hands and closes his eyes.

When he opens them, he’s in a garden behind a large stucco house. Sherlock—adult Sherlock—is kneeling next to him, and they’re both staring up into the eyes of a killer. The killer looks back with a clownlike grin, his pistol still buried into his own chest.

***

John was prepared to see Moriarty slumped to the ground in a pool of his own blood. He wasn’t, however, prepared to find himself on the ground, having leapt backwards to avoid a bullet that was never actually shot. 

“What the hell happened?” he asks hoarsely, his head throbbing as he becomes settled within his surroundings. "You—" he points a shaky finger at Moriarty. "You shot yourself! I watched you hold the gun to your own ribs and pull the trigger!"

Moriarty laughs a low, unpleasant laugh. “This is Mary's gun. And Mary is—was—a creature of habit. She was extremely sure of her own skill; and she never put more than a single bullet in her gun.” To prove himself, he pulls the barrel out and turns the gun upside down. It's empty.

“And the same goes for the backup pistol she left in the limo." He pulls a second gun from his coat pocket. "Though I'm sure she didn't think I'd use that single bullet to kill her." Carelessly, he tosses both guns to either side. John knows they're both likely empty, but he throws his body protectively over Sherlock’s, and in doing so, knocks him over as well. 

"She was a brilliant shot, but an incredible moron,” Moriarty continues. “What sort of bodyguard isn't even aware that her client wears a protective vest? Jesus! It's such a rookie mistake. Am I right, Sherlock?"

"I thought she _did_ know." Sherlock dusts himself off, refusing to meet Moriarty's eyes. "That's what makes this all even more odd." 

"Fucking hell! Sherlock!" Moriarty claps his hands together, filled with excitement. "Do you suppose Mary Morstan _wanted_ to die? And both of us unintentionally played into her death wish?" This sends Moriarty into a psychotic fit of laughter; a sound so sinister that John nearly plugs his ears. Thankfully, however, helicopters and sirens soon approach in the background, masking the sound.

"The police are arriving," Sherlock acknowledges. 

"Oh!" Moriarty inhales. "That’s my cue to leave. But try not to miss me too much—I will see you both again very soon. Toodles!"

_No._

Before John even comprehends what’s happening, Moriarty turns to run. He's unnaturally fast; quickly making it to the corner of the house and disappearing into the shadows. 

“No!” John calls out, leaping up from the ground. 

_No, no, no._

_He will not escape. Not as long as I can help it._

The world around John blurs. He runs after Moriarty with every ounce of strength he has left. And he thinks he may hear Sherlock is calling his name from behind him, but he’s too far away to be heard. Besides, John’s heart is thunderous in his ears, and the helicopters and sirens quickly grow louder and closer.

So John runs. He runs for Sherlock; to get him his life back. He runs so the two of them can finally be together without fear. He runs so that Sherlock can return to the family he’s loved and lost.

“John!” A firm voice; a hand grasping at his arm, finally pulling him back. “You _have_ to stop, or the police will think you’re a suspect.”

Urgency, real and desperate, springs out from Sherlock's voice. John stops. His chest heaves, and he chokes and sobs as he tries to catch his breath. “I’m sorry,” he says. He turns to face Sherlock, and he falls forwards, collapsing into his arms. “I’m so sorry.”

Sherlock holds him tightly. “You’ve got nothing to apologise for. It’s alright, John. It’s alright. We will be alright.” He repeats the words, knowing how much John needs them, and he strokes John's hair as he cries into his chest.

The helicopters are directly above them, now. No less than a half dozen police vehicles pull up as the helicopter operator calls from the loudspeaker. Officers pour out, holding guns and barking orders.

John and Sherlock simply hold on, tethering each other to Earth.

***

“Sherlock!” A haughty voice calls out. John instantly recognises it; it's Mycroft, Sherlock's brother. He approaches the two of them, dressed in a bespoke suit. He's accompanied by a man in his early thirties with black and silver hair who appears to be an _actual_ police officer. 

“Sherlock, get into the limousine,” Mycroft demands. “Immediately.” 

Sherlock appears too exhausted to argue. He takes John lightly by the arm, guiding him to the vehicle—but Mycroft holds up a stiff hand to stop him.

“Just you. Sergeant Lestrade will escort Mister Watson back to his hotel and keep a close eye on him until he returns home.”

The man named Lestrade nods. “It’s for your own protection, Sherlock. And his.” 

At first, Sherlock regards both of them with an eerie calmness. “He goes with me.” His eyes flash with determination, and his voice is steady as a rock. “This is not open for discussion.”

Mycroft opens his mouth to protest, and this is where Sherlock breaks. He lunges forwards, twisting his fingers into the collar of Mycroft’s suit. “ _I said_ —it’s not open for discussion.”

Low murmurs rush through the officers standing by, and a few of them lift their guns towards Sherlock. He releases Mycroft's collar, and the elder brother signals for them to stand down. He exhales a long-suffering sigh and glances over to Lestrade. 

Lestrade shrugs helplessly. “Told you."

Mycroft seals his lips together, turning away from them. “Get into the police vehicle, then,” he calls back over his shoulder. “Both of you.” 

John gives in to the upwards tug of his lips; but he instantly decides he doesn’t need to hide it, so he holds his head high as he follows them to the car. Lestrade opens the door for them, and they get in. John takes a seat behind Mycroft. Clearing his throat, he leans forwards to speak to him:

“So. I take it the mock police uniform didn't come with its own police vehicle, then? That's a shame." 

In the carseat next to him, Sherlock snorts with laughter. “Of course not. Mycroft doesn't even know how to drive. Besides, the only reason he got the outfit is because he told Lestrade about his uniform kink—“

 _“Enough,”_ Mycroft cuts him off. “Sherlock, I believe it would do you both well to remain silent for the entirety of this ride.”

“Or what?” Sherlock goads. “You'll burst out the fuzzy leopard-print cuffs?"

“Sherlock,” Lestrade admonishes, but there’s no vitriol in his tone; in fact, John thinks he can detect a flash of amusement. 

Mycroft simply ignores them, continuing to glare out the car window. 

“Where are you taking us, by the way?” John asks. 

“I can’t reveal the exact location,” Lestrade responds. “But we’re heading closer to the base. You’ll be under top-tier surveillance while we determine the next step.”

John nods, though Lestrade’s answer does very little to alleviate his anxiety. Sherlock, observant as ever, wraps his arm around his shoulder for comfort. John lays his head on his chest, and they ride the rest of the way in silence.

***

Within an hour or so, the vehicle pulls into the parking lot of an abandoned motel. The rooms are dark and empty; the sign has fallen off, and they are surrounded by nothing but empty desert on all sides. 

Lestrade glances at them through the rearview mirror. “You’ll both be staying here tonight,” he says to Sherlock. “Your brother and I will remain here as well.”

“Oh, what a great joy.” Sherlock rolls his eyes.

“Nothing to get ruffled over, mate. You and Watson will have your own room." His voice grows a bit more serious. "But honestly, Sherlock. You ought to give your brother a bit of credit. Even though you might not see all of it, he's taking numerous and tedious measures to keep you alive."

Mycroft turns away from the window to face him. “Gregory," he says softly. "It’s alright. You don’t need to—“

“You have a point, Lestrade,” Sherlock interrupts. “I suppose I ought to be thanking you both for saving my life. So yes. Thank you." 

Mycroft can't hide the expression of bewilderment on his face; it fades into a tiny smile of acknowledgement.

“Thank you,” Sherlock reiterates. “Now _please_ show us to our room. I’m utterly exhausted.”

“We'll take you there," Lestrade says, "but before we leave you alone, we need to go over a few important matters."

“Lestrade.” John speaks up as the name provokes a sudden familiarity—from the news article he read, and from Sherlock’s letter. “Sergeant Lestrade. You’re the New Scotland Yard officer who reported Sherlock dead.”

Lestrade nods, opening the car door to exit the vehicle. “But as I’m sure you know by now, there’s much more to the story. We can go into more details later.”

John does know this; but as Lestrade opens the car door for them, he’s stricken with a sudden sadness over the thought of that period of Sherlock's life. He decides he needs to know nothing more of it. 

***

Upon entering the motel room, Sherlock and John murmur with approval. Thankfully, regardless of how the outside of the motel appears, the quarters are quite nice. There's an enormous bed, and there's a shower—god, John can’t wait to shower. 

But first, as Lestrade promised, the four of them settle in to briefly discuss "urgent" matters. 

Sherlock butts in to ask about Molly and Irene.

"They're safe," Mycroft promises him. "And they know you are as well."

"And what about my friends?" John asks. "Gabriela? Sarah? Mike?"

“Gabriela remains with her family for the time being. Sarah has been made aware of the situation, minus some of the specifics—so have Mike Stamford and his partner, Elizabeth."

Elizabeth. As Mycroft says her name, John's chest aches. He thinks about how difficult this must be for her. It’s doubtful that she knew her best friend was a government agent who lied about her identity, and even more unlikely that she knew she was an assassin. Have they even informed her that Marci was actually Mary, and that she's been shot dead?

Again, he doesn’t push for the details. 

“And what about Harvard?” Sherlock asks. “John is in medical school there. What will happen if he doesn’t return?” 

Mycroft peers at his younger brother meaningfully. "I'm afraid I have no power over that, especially as you insisted Mister Watson accompany you."

“It's fine,” John reassures him. “I have another two weeks or so before the Spring semester begins, and I’ll surely be able to catch up on my studies. But right now, that’s the least of our worries. Let’s just focus on finding Moriarty.”

A grey cloud seems to suddenly appear over Sherlock’s face. “I assume he hasn't been found by the police?” he asks.

“Not yet.” Mycroft, perhaps out of nervous habit, begins to dust off the sleeves of his suit jacket. “It’s our assumption that he moved underground. We will continue to survey the area heavily until he resurfaces.”

“One more thing, if I may,” John adds. Lestrade and Mycroft look up at him to listen. “It's just that...I have an older sister. She and her wife are the only family I’ve got."

“We can get a message to them, letting them know you’re alright,” Lestrade says. “But we won’t be able to tell her of your situation or whereabouts.”

John nods. “That's good enough for now.”

“We’ll keep you in the loop,” Lestrade assures them. “If you need me, Sherlock has my number. Meanwhile, get some rest. We'll return tomorrow morning with updates." 

John holds his hand out to Lestrade. “Thank you again...for everything.”

"My pleasure," Lestrade says, shaking it.

John then turns to Mycroft, extending a hand, and Mycroft accepts. As they shake hands, though, John leans forwards to say something into his ear. 

“You were wrong, you know,” he says. “Even after all that’s happened, I don’t regret a thing.”

Mycroft leans away, releasing John’s hand, giving him an unveiled look of disapproval. “It isn’t over yet, Watson,” he says. “Far from it.”

“We’ll leave you now, though." Lestrade, as always, is highly skilled at knowing when to intervene. He sets a hand on Mycroft’s shoulder and nods. “Bye, you two. Try and get some rest.”

John doesn’t need to be asked twice; his eyelids are heavy, and his body feels like it’s going to collapse at any moment. “Goodbye,” he says politely, though he is filled with utter relief as they walk out the door. 

***

But before he rests, John has got to shower. So he fights back his exhaustion, steps into the tiny stall, and turns the tap as hot as it will go. He lets himself enjoy the water that pours over his body, washing off whatever remains from the day—all of the dirt and grime and blood and emotions and death. 

He soon hears Sherlock’s approaching footsteps. The door opens, and John smiles; without a word, Sherlock slips into the shower with him.

“Hi,” John says, kissing Sherlock’s bare shoulder.

John can sense him smiling. “Hi.” 

As Sherlock steps beneath the water, John lowers his gaze. He unabashedly watches as water collects at his collarbones, pours over his chest, and trickles over his body, down past his hips and over his thighs.

When he lifts his gaze to Sherlock, Sherlock is looking back at him. His expression is somewhat forlorn—but very much needy and desperate.

"John," he says roughly, taking John's face into his hands and kissing him. The kiss is not soft, nor tender. It burns; it’s possessive, and it's charged with Sherlock's desire. John gives himself over, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's waist to scoop him in closer. As water pours over their soft naked bodies, they glide their tongues messily over each other's lips, their hard, twitching cocks sliding together. They kiss feverishly, until their mouths are red and chapped and fatigued; their skin all dried out from the water.

Still in the heat of the moment, they step out of the shower to dry themselves off. Sherlock wraps himself in his towel and walks into the main room; John simply watches him from behind—his glistening skin, the cloth slung below the dimples of his back. Sherlock stops in front of the sofa and drops his towel to his ankles before turning to sit. He watches John now; and he takes his hard, leaking cock into his own hand, his eyes and lips and body inviting John to join him.

John shivers with anticipation; he drops his own towel to the floor, and he walks across the room to meet him. He stops, and Sherlock wraps his arms around his lower back to pull him into his lap. After they become aligned, Sherlock moves his hands to John’s buttocks, coaxing his hips forwards. John inhales a sharp, flustered breath as they grind their cocks together. They rock their hips, trembling and sighing from the pleasure until it can no longer be contained. And when they can't take it any longer, Sherlock cakes his finger in a generous coat of saliva, and he slides it into John to open him up. He soon slides in a second finger, and a third, giving John a rough, passionate finger fuck until he is ready to take him all in.

He maneuvers and guides John until they are in perfect alignment, and John slowly sinks down until Sherlock is buried inside him. 

"Hold on to me," Sherlock murmurs—so John clutches onto his shoulders, leaning forwards and resting their foreheads together. Their eyes drift shut, and Sherlock arches his hips upwards; John bears back down onto him until they fall into a familiar pattern. Sighing and moaning and burning for each other, they make love.

Moments later, Sherlock orgasms—he freezes, stuttering and pouring himself into John. And while he comes, he quickly wraps his slender fingers around John’s hardness and pulls. He throws his head back to expose his pale, sweaty neck, and the vision of Sherlock in the throes of ecstasy is all John needs; with one small stroke, hot liquid floods out of him and over Sherlock's fingers. 

After that, they climb beneath the soft covers of the bed, wrapping themselves in each other's arms. It occurs to John that it's the first time they’ve fallen asleep together since Christmas Eve.

“It won’t be the last,” Sherlock promises, as though he’s been reading his mind. Perhaps he has been.

"No matter what happens," he reminds John, "we will always find one another again."

John squeezes Sherlock's hand in acknowledgement. "I remember." 

_Always, always, always._

They both close their eyes, counting each other's breaths until they fall asleep. 

***

When John wakes again, several hours have passed. It's darker than dark now, and Sherlock is no longer there.

He checks his phone. It's three in the morning, and he’s got a text from an unfamiliar number. He places it face down onto the bed, because he already knows what it’s going to say. And he needs just a few more seconds to live in a world where that message doesn’t exist. 

Finally, he takes a deep breath, and he opens it.

_Hey there, Johnny! Hope you slept well. Anyway, meet me alone at the top of The Stratosphere Hotel before the sun comes up, or he will die. -JM_


	14. The Landing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re very calm for a man who is about to die."
> 
> These are the last words Moriarty will ever say to him. 

Occasionally, just after sleeping and just shy of being awake, Sherlock finds himself caught in limbo between the two realms. Without purpose or explanation, lost remnants of his dreams spill over into the waking world: a flock of mystical seagulls, gathering in flight across the ceiling, or the pittering of Irish setter paws over the wooden floor. A record player, perhaps, spinning a folk song his mother used to sing to him, or a shadowy silhouette waiting at the foot of his bed. 

Though Sherlock is not yet fully roused, he feels his presence before he appears—the phantom in the doorway with a clownlike smile, beckoning him to follow. 

Sherlock knows he must go.

He doesn’t turn to kiss John goodbye, nor glance in his direction, for there is danger in biding time. In this shared bed of theirs, the sight of John’s naked body—draped in moonlight and thin cotton sheets—would rob Sherlock completely of his ability to leave.

He follows the phantom from the cabin and into the dry night, where he becomes caught in an embrace that is colder than the Arctic wind. He feels a needle in his arm, and the soothing lilt of a madman’s voice just over the shell of his ear:

“I won’t hurt you, pet,” he says. “Not yet. But this will make things easier for both of us.” 

Sherlock tries to break free from the icy grasp, but drowsiness quickly overtakes him. He falls back into a deep sleep, murmuring John’s name.

***

“Doctor Brook? Good afternoon. I’m Sherlock Holmes, your new teaching assistant.” 

Doctor Richard Brook peers up from his texts, his eyes blank and dark like a new-moon sky. At twenty-six, he is Oxford’s youngest professor—yet to most, he appears even younger. 

The lack of recognition causes Sherlock to worry that there has been an error. Is it possible he was misinformed, or that Brook changed his mind? 

Sherlock clears his throat and summons the nerve to continue speaking. “Apologies for the interruption, sir. There must have been a mistake. I’ll leave you to your texts.”

Brook suddenly snaps out of his haze, familiarity settling over him. “Sherlock! Jesus, where are my manners?” His voice is coloured faintly with the warm cadence of an Irish accent. “So sorry. I was in my, uh—brain attic, if you will. It sometimes takes a moment for me to come out of there.” Rising from his desk, he extends a hand in greeting. 

Left-hand dominant, Sherlock observes as he takes it—hands soft but for the calluses on his thumbs. On the inner edge, from hours of writing by hand; on the outer edge, from years of flipping through old texts. A scholar through and through, yet not. He enunciates his words with the preciseness of a skilled orator, but his mannerisms are largely unpretentious.

“It’s a great honour to be working with you, Doctor Brook,” Sherlock says. “I have been closely following your publications on forensics for years.”

“Please, just call me Brook. And likewise,” he responds warmly. “The Science of Deduction? Brilliant. It’s so good to meet you, Sherlock. I have a feeling we'll work together quite well.”

Sherlock, who is only twenty himself, never tires of hearing praise for his academic accomplishments. But for the praise to come from Brook—someone he so greatly admires—is an honour he wasn’t expecting.

“Thank you,” he says quietly, his ears turning hot. “I hope that I am able to meet your expectations.”

Brook’s smile is bright against his olive skin, and premature crows feet settle at the corners of his heavily-lashed eyes. His sports coat and slacks are neatly pressed, hanging comfortably on his lean, muscular frame. His face is dusted with nearly two days of scruff, and thick waves of dark hair lay tastefully disheveled at the top of his head. 

Sherlock supposes that Brook’s students likely find him attractive—and though he has the ability to recognise this, it has little effect on him. There is something, however—a comfort, a kinship in Brook that he immediately catches on to. 

“That’s a lovely necklace you’re wearing,” Sherlock remarks, noting the tiny crucifix hanging from a gold chain around Brook’s neck. There is an inscription on it: _Memento mori._ Latin: “Remember death.” In layman's terms: remember that one day, you will die.

Brook glances down at the relic. “Oh. Yes, thank you. It belonged to my grandmother Joan, a devout Catholic. She’s the one who raised me.” 

“Interesting. It must have felt strange for you to go from a religious upbringing to a career in science.”

The corner of Brook’s mouth turns upwards. “Not at all. Actually, she's the one who encouraged me. She would say: in our universe, there are countless beautiful mysteries unsolved, and mankind is curious by nature. She didn’t believe it to be a coincidence.”

“My brother is the same,” Sherlock says. “He’s always said that the universe is rarely lazy. Although he is quite lazy himself, so—”

Sherlock’s gaze wanders, and he becomes distracted by the open text on Brook’s desk.

“May I ask what you’re reading?” he inquires.

“Oh.” Brook chuckles, wringing his hands in a self-conscious manner that’s more charming than off-putting. “Just some light material on a Polish man by the name of Kosminski. There’s some recent DNA evidence that links him to—”

“—the Whitechapel murders,” Sherlock cuts in with enthusiasm. “Yes. From analyses of blood found in the scarf of Catherine Eddowis, one of the five canonical victims of—“

“Jack the Ripper,” Brook responds with a smile. “It’s inconclusive, of course, but it’s fun to think about.” He gestures towards his desk. “Want to join me?” 

“I would love that,” Sherlock says, not missing a beat.

And so begins a deep, life-altering friendship. 

***

_John._

The name still echoes in Sherlock’s mind as he opens his eyes, surrounded by stillness and warm desert air. His head throbs in pain as he attempts to take in a bleary view of Vegas’ city lights reflecting off of the low clouds. 

He is drowsy, and the back of his neck feels stiff and cold, the skin of his arms and legs sore. Slowly, however, it begins to register that he is tied to a wall, and his limbs have been bound together. 

Less than a metre away is the moonlit silhouette of Moriarty, staring pensively over the edge of a building and into the night. With a chillingly precise awareness of his surroundings, he speaks even before Sherlock stirs.

“Lads and ladies of Las Vegas,” he declares jubilantly. “Welcome to our show: A Life for a Life! When the sun comes up, a life will be taken. Whose life will it be? Will it be our brave hero, John Watson? Or will it be his lascivious lover, Sherlock Holmes? The stakes are high, but so is the Stratosphere hotel and casino—so stay tuned to see why that’s relevant!” 

“I will be the one who dies,” Sherlock rasps, his voice dry from disuse. “This is not a game, Moriarty. You wanted a life, and I am here. You have found me. You’ve already won.”

Moriarty laughs. “Did you forget? This is Vegas, honey! The games don’t end until the sun comes up! And our game is multiple choice. So, who will take the great fall? It will be up to Sherlock _and_ John to decide.”

Moriarty, of course, knows this game too well—and it isn’t about _who_ dies. A simple death is far too easy. In this game, no matter what decision occurs between John and himself—one is going to die, and the other will be left behind, inconsolable. 

“There needn’t be any further discussion, nor negotiation,” Sherlock insists. “This war is mine, and I refuse to let John fight it.

“Shut up!” Moriarty roars, his voice softening again in the words that follow. “There are rules. And we must play by the rules—we wait until sunrise.”

“And what if he doesn’t come by then?” Sherlock asks, a glimmer of hope rising up within him. 

“Then you will pick. Oh! I already know the answer. And I will be the winner, because you will be dead. And John will be the loser, but I will leave him alone, and I will leave your friends alone, because they will no longer serve any purpose.”

Sherlock closes his eyes and lowers his head, willing himself to go back to sleep--so that the time passes quickly, and he doesn’t have to hear Moriarty’s voice.

There is not much else he can do besides wait, hoping and hoping and hoping that John does not come. 

***

Brook and Sherlock soon become inseparable. They spend most of their spare time together: hours of exhilarating conversation mixed with late night investigations in Brook’s lab, solving cases both old and new. Due to Brook’s prestige in the field, they have a constant incoming of cases, and between the two of them, nothing goes unsolved. 

Sherlock is surprised at how easy it is to interact with him, especially considering his lack of experience in the area of human companionship. He has never had much interest in social interactions, even as a child—preferring to stay alone indoors with a book or a microscope.

But from time to time, even then, as he watched other children in his neighbourhood through the windows of his bedroom—riding their bicycles, playing games, and chasing fireflies— he wondered what it might be like to have a friend.

And he thinks, perhaps, that is exactly what he and Brook have become.

***

Love. 

For years and years, Sherlock swore against it. To him, it was simply a distraction for the lonely and the feeble-minded. A dangerous diversion; a fatal blend of foolishness and pheromones.

Sherlock had always considered himself a sensible man, but mourned one poor soul after another as he watched them become pierced and poisoned by love’s razor-sharp claws. 

He never, ever, ever thought it could happen to him. Not like this. Not until he met John. But as he faces the monster who took everything from him, he knows how he can assure John’s safety--and nothing has ever been simpler. 

“I know what you’re thinking, pet.” Moriarty turns away from the skyline. “But I assure you, John Watson will come.” With his clownlike grin, he begins to slink towards Sherlock like a hungry tiger.

“There is no way you can be certain of that,” Sherlock says. 

Moriarty’s eyes grow wide. “Have you seen the way he looks at you? Like he would fly to the moon and back, just to keep you safe? Oh, how desperately he loves you. And love bears _all_ things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things—” 

_“Stop.”_ Sherlock clenches his teeth. “You're not him. Your words have no meaning nor resonance with me. You know nothing of love, you disgusting, vile madman.” 

Supplementing logic with texts from the Bible—it’s something Brook would do, though he knew it carried no weight with Sherlock, an atheist. And Sherlock would prefer to keep Moriarty out of Brook's memories. 

“Oh, we’re playing pretend, are we?” Moriarty stops at arms-length, pinning Sherlock to the wall with eyes as black as ink. “ _You_ are a madman, and a liar as well. You know as much as I know: love is simply a form of madness.” 

Moriarty is so close that Sherlock can feel his breath; he can see the veins bulging from his neck. Still, he refuses to look away.

“Love is quite the opposite,” Sherlock replies. “Love is clarity. It is quiet and blissful; it is permanence, and it is transcendence.”

Moriarty flashes his teeth with amusement. “What I have described as madness, you have just described as death. And look at us, facing the consequences of our poor decisions here, together. We are truly are alike, Sherlock, are we not?” 

As Sherlock stares into the whites of his wild, bloodshot eyes, he thinks of John’s bright, blue, kind ones—and he refuses to believe they could ever be the same. 

“No,” he growls. “We are not.”

***

It’s the final week of Sherlock’s second year at Oxford. As usual, he and Brook are engrossed in a late night investigation at the laboratory—just one result away from breaking open a case they’ve been working on for weeks.

It’s one in the morning, and the two of them have been laughing boisterously over Brook’s retelling of a case that involves a well-known political figure and a few embarrassing credit card purchases. 

“We really ought to wrap this up for now,” Brook says, looking down at his watch. 

No,” Sherlock protests. “Not now. Please. We’re so close, and I won’t be able to sleep until we’ve got the results.”

Brook rolls his chair back, switching off the desk lamp. “The results may take several hours, Sherlock. Don’t you have an exam in the morning?”

Sherlock sighs. “Yes,” he acknowledges, silently cursing him for never failing to recall these types of things. “But—

It will be here in the morning—we can pick up where we left off after your exam.” Brook stands, taking his coat. “Patience brings peace. Proverbs 15:18.” 

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Right. _Must_ you attempt to enhance your arguments using spiritual texts? I’m an atheist. Know your audience.”

Brook smiles at him, offering him his coat. “Come on. I’ll walk with you to your place.” 

Grudgingly, Sherlock pulls himself down from his seat upon the table and follows Brook from the laboratory. 

The night is crisp with mid-Autumn air, a steady breeze rustling Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock lives only a short walk from campus, and Brook often accompanies him when it’s late. In between, the walk is mostly silent, though Sherlock’s brain stirs excitedly over the workings of their case.

They approach Sherlock’s door and turn to each other to bid farewell. 

“Goodnight,” Sherlock says with a giddy sort of smile, unable to contain the excitement of the case bubbling in his chest. “Thank you for walking me home. And thank you for tonight. It was fantastic, as always. Another perfect ending to another wonderful year.” 

Though it’s dark, he notes that Brook’s expression conveys a similarly emotional state—a rare combination of pride and awe.

“Thank _you_ ,” he says. “Sometimes I wish you could see yourself through my eyes, you know. How much you’ve grown in the past two years. Even after all this time, your brilliance never ceases to amaze me, Sherlock. You're so invaluable, both in your talent and your friendship. I feel incredibly fortunate to experience the joy of both.”

Sherlock’s chest swells with so much gratitude for his friend that he can’t contain it. Perhaps it's because of Brook’s words, or the suspense of their case, or the nostalgia of another year coming to a close—but whatever it is, this moment has a profound effect on him.

Feeling the fierce urge to express his gratefulness, he bends forwards, wrapping his arms around Brook’s shoulders. He has never hugged anyone on purpose before—he wonders if he's doing it correctly. It feels odd. Odd, but nice—especially when Brook lifts his arms loosely in some semblance of returning it.

But then, something else happens. As Sherlock leans away, his cool skin glides across Brook’s stubbled cheek, and he experiences yet another, wholly unfamiliar urge. His breath catches. Giving in to the urge, he drags his lips over Brook’s and softly begins to kiss them.

For a fleeting moment, he feels Brook’s willingness to reciprocate: a sharp exhalation, a forward tilt of his head, the tightening of his grip on Sherlock’s shoulders.

But every bit as quickly as it begins, it ends.

“Sherlock.” Brook gently pushes him away. 

“Jesus. I’m sorry. I know,” Sherlock says weakly, the sharp sting of embarrassment immediately overtaking him. ”I-I don’t know why on Earth I did that. I simply wanted to thank you somehow, and—“ 

Brook holds up a hand. “Understood,” he says, his tone kind but firm. “But it’s not something we can entertain, and that’s all that needs to be said.” 

Sherlock nods silently, wilting with shame. 

“Goodnight, Sherlock. I’ll see you tomorrow morning in the lab?”

“Yes,” Sherlock replies, unable to meet his eyes. “Goodnight.” 

Sherlock doesn’t sleep that night. At eight in the morning, he sits for his exam, which he passes with flying colours. Immediately afterwards, he returns to Brook’s laboratory, his pulse racing wildly— both for the lab results, and for the fear that Brook might turn him away. 

But as he enters, Brook beams at him. “Your predictions were correct,” he says happily. “To the very last detail. Congratulations, Sherlock. You solved the case.”

Sherlock smiles back at him, a heavy weight lifting from his chest. “We solved it together. That’s how it’s always been. And as long as there are people in the world committing crimes and murders, I hope that’s how it will always be.”

Brook gives Sherlock a brief nod of acknowledgement. “I hope so as well.”

Their friendship continues just as easily as ever—full of mutual admiration, laughter, and late nights at the laboratory. They never speak of the kiss again. 

The first of the Oxford murders occurs four months later.

***

Moriarty tilts his head, curiously regarding Sherlock—and for the tiniest of moments, Sherlock believes he may detect a speck of humanity in his eyes. He seizes the opportunity.

“If it is true, Moriarty, that love is both madness and death—let’s not wait for the morning sun. Let me go, so that I may do what needs to be done. And in doing so, not only will you have won, you will have been proven right.”

Moriarty’s words are startlingly soft, even childlike. “I don’t understand why you love him. He is quite ordinary, you know.”

“You are wrong,” Sherlock utters. “John Watson is anything but ordinary.”

Moriarty’s expression becomes as blank as a porcelain doll’s. “Love is as strong as death, its jealousy unyielding as the grave,” he recites. “It burns like blazing fire—a mighty flame. Waters cannot quench love; rivers cannot sweep it away.” He rips his gaze from Sherlock, tilting his head to the sky. “Sisters of Jerusalem, if you find my lover, may you tell him—“ he raises his voice, and it echoes from the walls. “ _—I am sick of love.”_

He looks back downwards, and the face of the monster has returned. “My god,” he says with disgust. “Why, Sherlock? Why have you chosen this man over your very own life?”

"Because…” Sherlock lowers his head, remembering a scripture that once sat in a frame atop his grandmother's desk. “Because he is the one my soul loves.” 

“Ooooh,” Moriarty drops his jaw dramatically. “Dear lord, he speaks my language. But I suppose it’s not so rare that one would die for their lover. The question I have for you, though, is this: Would you do what I've done, Sherlock? Would kill for the man you love?”

***

Her name was Meena Natale. She was an ICU nurse—twenty-eight years old; happily married, no children, no known enemies, and no history of health problems. She died by asphyxiation—strangled by her killer. Oddly, trace amounts of cyanide were also found on her lips, though none was detected internally.

The second murder occurred a bit over one month later: Akshaya Carmen, a thirty year-old school teacher with a similarly clean history. Like Natale, she died of asphyxiation, with trace amounts of cyanide on her lips. 

Moral dilemmas aside, Sherlock is excited to hear of a new serial murder case to investigate. He is quite surprised to find that Brook does not feel the same.

“Yeah, I’ve heard of the murders," he says nonchalantly as they sit for lunch between lectures. ”I thought of you, of course. Right up your alley, isn’t it?”

“Exactly!” Sherlock is practically wriggling in his seat with excitement. “Do you think your colleague at Bart’s hospital could get her hands on the lab results of the tissue that tested positive for cyanide? I think it’s worth looking into.”

“I don’t know, Sherlock." Brook takes a bite of his apple. “You know, with your studies coming to an end soon, perhaps it would be good experience for you to take this case on your own.”

Sherlock pauses, his sandwich halfway to his mouth. He sets it back down, crinkling his forehead with confusion. “Why would I do that?”

“You’re ready," Brook says. "You’ve got no need to prove that to me. But what better way is there for you to prove it to yourself? Especially with a case like this.”

Sherlock is not quite prepared for the pain of rejection that he feels. In nearly four years, the two of them have never worked on a case without each other.

”Are you...sick of working with me?” Sherlock asks quietly. 

“No. No, not at all. We’ve got a half dozen cases right now, and we will continue to take more. It’s just one investigation, my friend. And I’m looking forward to seeing what you make of it.” He smiles at him reassuringly.

”Alright.” Sherlock slowly sips his coffee, only partially listening as Brook picks up their earlier conversation on tobacco ash.   
  
Sherlock tries to respect Brook's wishes. It proves difficult, at times, to keep his findings to himself--but he soon becomes to think of it as a furtive mission of proof that he can, indeed solve it on his own. The two of them go on as normal, but Sherlock spends his own spare time--when he’s not studying or helping Brook--looking into the Oxford murders. He frequently contacts Sergeant Lestrade, a New Scotland Yard detective in London who begrudgingly consults Brook and himself when the London police are in over their heads. He cautiously allows his confidence and fascination to grow, especially when a third murder occurs a few weeks later, and then a fourth. 

Their names are Elena Sharpe and Christina Everson, and they fit every part of the killer's profile.   
  
One week after he passes his comprehensive examinations, the fifth murder occurs. Her name is Maria Jose Kabara, and she is the county commissioner’s eldest daughter. A handwritten note, scrawled in bright red ink by someone who appears to be left-handed, is placed next to her corpse:

Dear Commissioner. Have you figured it out yet? I’ve had plenty of fun with this, but murders are getting to be boring. Maybe I’ll chop off some poor sod’s toes and send them to the police, just for shits and giggles. Or maybe I’ll just steal the Crown Jewels. Either way, I’ll keep my knives sharp. Good luck! Yours truly, Moriarty. 

It's a blatant tongue-in-cheek homage to the infamous "Dear Boss" letter, a handwritten confession by a person identifying themselves as "Jack the Ripper." The letter, written in red ink as well, begins with the words "Dear Boss," and contains boastful descriptions of the Whitechapel murders. It also contains jabs at the police, including the mention of cutting off someone's ears and sending them to the police "just for jolly." 

It's unknown how many women fell victim to the Whitechapel Murderer, but it's widely accepted that there were at least five--commonly referred to as the "canonical five." Quite fitting that Moriarty's letter was written after their fifth victim. And furthermore, Sherlock realises a commonality in the names of the victims: 

Mary Nichols. Meena Natale. 

Annie Chapman. Akshaya Carmen. 

Elizabeth Stride. Elena Sharpe. 

Catherine Eddowes. Christina Everson.

Mary Jane Kelly. Maria Jose Kabara. 

The initials of Moriarty's victims match the initials of the canonical five. 

It's three in the morning, but Sherlock can't pull himself from his sofa quickly enough; he doesn't stop on his way out to grab his coat. He runs to Brook's house as quickly as he can, and once he's there, he bangs on his door loudly enough to wake the dead. 

"Sherlock?" Brook opens the door in a daze, wearing a cotton shirt and boxers, hair mussed from sleep. "Is everything alright?" 

"I'm a complete idiot." Sherlock doesn't wait for an invitation, bursting into Brook's flat without explanation. 

"Sorry. What? I—" Brook watches Sherlock as he makes his way to the kitchen and turns on the tea kettle. "It's the middle of the night. I was sleeping. Just...give me a moment to catch up." 

"We don't have a moment," Sherlock argues. "They've murdered five people already." 

"Who has?"

"Moriarty!" 

Brook frowns, pressing his lips together. "Right. The Oxford Murders." 

Sherlock clenches his fists, pressing them onto the counter top. "I've overlooked a series of clues so obvious that they may as well have been tattooed on my arm. And while people die, you refuse to get involved because you think I've got something to prove to myself." He leans onto his hands, hanging his head. "Brook, I can't do this alone. I'm asking you, sincerely, to stop trying to teach me and to have some humanity." 

"Sherlock." Brook says his name gently, as if he's worried it will break. He opens his mouth to speak further, but the kettle begins to whistle. So he steps into the kitchen to switch off the stove, and doesn't say more.

Sherlock stares blankly at the backs of his hands. "What will happen, now that I've passed my exams and will be moving on? Is that what this is about? You're through with me, and you're trying to let me down easily?" 

"No." Brook sighs. "No, Sherlock. Not at all." He moves to Sherlock's side. "I—I don't know what to say. I guess I'm still half asleep, but...you must know that I—“ 

Still struggling to find words, he sets a hand gently on Sherlock's shoulder. 

Sherlock looks up at him. "This murderer can be stopped. But I need your help. I need _you._ Please, Brook. For me." 

Although there’s a pained expression on his face, Brook is no longer able to resist his pleas. "Alright. Yes, Sherlock. I'll help you solve the case."

Sherlock, filled with relief, spins his body towards Brook's and pulls him into a tight embrace.

”Thank you,” he murmurs, and he finds himself in a vaguely familiar position. Brook’s arms are around his waist, his stubbled jaw pressed against Sherlock's cool skin. Sherlock feels an urge that was at one time completely foreign; but he's not as naive as he was before—and he is no longer Brook's student. 

He turns his head slowly, slowly, dragging his cheek over Brook's. He hesitates before their lips meet, allowing Brook the chance to break away or protest. He doesn't; he slides his fingers to the small of Sherlock's back and squeezes his hips, closing the distance between their bodies—and Sherlock is suddenly very much reminded that Brook is wearing very little. 

They stand frozen, knowing that if they cross this line it can’t be uncrossed. So they breathe steadily, waiting for permission or a reason. 

It's Sherlock who finally gives it. 

"This is...it's a possibility I would like to entertain.” His voice is low and deep. "And I think...perhaps you would like to as well." 

Brook exhales shakily. "Yes."

"Then I can only assume your hesitance is out of concern for me. But please don’t be afraid; I'm not as breakable as you think.”

With that, Brook seizes him. Their mouths meet with a gust of air and an inevitability that overtakes them both. Sherlock didn't know how much he needed this—not until he’s sliding his hands under the hem of Brook's shorts, and Brook is sliding his beneath Sherlock's shirt, spinning his body and pressing him against the counter.

That night, Brook brings Sherlock into his bed. He lays him on his back, looking him in the eye as he slides into him, and he gently tells him that he's just as beautiful as he is clever. Sherlock clings to him, his body hot and slick from sweat, and he calls out his name, begging him not to stop. And they don't stop—they fuck sensually atop Brook's satin sheets, and then they fuck beneath them. And against his leather headboard, with Sherlock on his knees and his hands pinned above his head. And at the foot of the bed, with Sherlock bouncing slowly in Brook’s lap. 

At six in the morning, Sherlock falls asleep next to Brook. Eight hours later, he learns that Brook is a murderer. 

It begins with an apple. 

Sherlock goes to join Brook in his laboratory for lunch, but he's running a few minutes late. When he arrives, Brook is at his desk reading as he finishes his meal.

And that's when all of the pieces fall together—so sharp and immediate that Sherlock wonders, to this day, if Brook set himself up on purpose.

Brook sets down the core of an apple— with his left hand—next to a jar of red ink. He plucks the seeds from it, quickly and skillfully, and he turns to drop them into a box on the bookshelf behind him. The box is large; large enough that if it were full of apple seeds, and the seeds were ground together, their cyanide complex could potentially be detectable. On the bookshelf behind him, the book he was reading the day they met: a profile on a man theorised to be Jack the Ripper. 

And finally, Sherlock's eyes settle upon two framed pieces of artwork hanging over that very bookshelf: in dark wood, the words _memento mori._ Immediately next to it, a painting done by his grandmother, which she signed and labeled simply: _arte._

He’s suddenly struggling to breathe, and he doesn't want to look—but the words blur together, directly above Brook's head: _mori arte._

Sherlock does everything in his power to compose himself as he silently turns to leave. On the way out of the building, he drops his books, hails a cab, and sends a text to Lestrade: 

_Brook is Moriarty._

***

Moriarty's words hit Sherlock like a punch in the gut; bleed into his brain from his ears.

“...What did you say?” he asks.

Moriarty chuckles beneath his breath. “Oh. Haven't you figured it out, darling? Why those women had to die? Why I murdered them in cold blood?”

Sherlock’s eyes fall closed. He wants to beg him not to continue, but his words are lodged in his throat.

“Song of Songs,” Moriarty murmurs, his face hovering against Sherlock’s. “I opened myself to my beloved, but my beloved had turned and gone. My heart went out to him as he spoke. I searched for him but did not find him; I called him but he did not answer.”

“Stop,” Sherlock pleads.

"Death. Madness. Love. It’s all the same—do you see that now, Sherlock? It’s all the same.” He drops his voice low, breathing into Sherlock’s ear: “It was all. For. You.”

"Oh, god." Sherlock clenches his eyes tightly. He can’t process this right now. Any of it.

"You and me, Sherlock." Moriarty whispers. "Together. That's all I ever wanted. For as long as we both had eyes and ears and brains. But you quickly grew to outshine me, and you had no reason to stay. But there was nobody else like us, darling. I just wanted you to see that; I wanted you to feel it too." 

Sherlock swallows thickly. "There was a man named Richard Brook, for whom I had great admiration. The years I spent as his partner were some of the best of my life, and I would happily have spent more. I would not be who I am if it weren't for his friendship, and knowing what I know now, I realise that I loved him deeply." 

Moriarty moves away, looking down at him with genuine sadness. "You did?"

"Yes. As much as I could have, given my breadth of knowledge. But it doesn't matter. It wasn’t until I met John Watson—and found a part of myself I didn't know I'd been missing—that I learned love's true meaning." 

Moriarty's eyes grow wild with resentment. "You speak of Brook as though he is not standing right before you." 

Sherlock's jaw trembles. He's gritting his teeth so hard that they ache. "No. You are _not him._ He is dead, and you are the monster who killed him. And I have mourned him; as much as I have mourned my life and my family, I have mourned the loss of my friend, Richard Brook.”

"I am ten times the man he was," Moriarty roars. 

"You're a murderer!" 

Unexpectedly, Moriarty cowers away from him. "You said it. That as long as there are people in the world committing murders, that you hoped we would...It was the only way...I didn't want to lose you." 

Sherlock can no longer hold back the heat of his anger. "You killed five innocent women...to get my attention? Because you thought it would please me?!" 

"It worked, did it not?" Moriarty insists, his expression boastful. "You finally understood! How heartbroken you were...simply at the thought of being on your own. And after the fifth, you came to me and begged me not to go, and you kissed me. You kissed me, and you asked me to take you to bed, and then you betrayed me." 

Sherlock is trembling all over with anger, his heart racing so fast he can barely speak. "If you didn't want me to figure it out...why on earth did you set yourself up to be caught?" 

"I promised I would help you!" Moriarty reminds him. "And you were mine, finally mine, and I thought it would always be that way. But you never, ever, ever looked at me the way you look at _him."_

Sherlock would hit him if his hands weren't tied. Instead, he leans forward, glaring at him with as much ferocity as he can muster. 

"Do not compare yourself to John. He is a hundred—a thousand times more human than you are, and I will always choose him over anyone and anything, including my own life." 

Moriarty raises an eyebrow at him, unfazed. "You're sexy when you're angry."

"Stop talking," Sherlock retorts. 

"There is another option, you know." He lifts a hand to Sherlock's head, twirling a curl between his fingers. "Think about it." 

"I don't want to think about it." Sherlock jerks his head away, unbothered by the pull of Moriarty's unrelenting grip. 

"You get to live, and John Watson gets to live, and Richard Brook and Sherlock Holmes will be together again. Side by side. Just like old times." 

Sherlock speaks through clenched teeth. "I would prefer to die." 

At that exact moment, a morning bird starts to sing, and a ray of sunlight pours in from behind the clouds.

"Listen!" Moriarty points outwards excitedly. "The bird sings! It's almost morning, my friend. It seems you will get your wish." 

Sherlock exhales a gust of wind, his anger melting off of him like snow—his chest newly filled with relief and hope. He looks over the horizon, in awe of the sun as it rises over the blue mountains and red plateaus. It's going to be a beautiful sunrise, and John will be alive to see it. And he will be alive for many more after, and for many more sunsets as well. 

Sherlock closes his eyes and sighs contentedly. "Untie me, Moriarty," he says. 

And by the grace of God, whatever God is—he does. 

***

He's done this before. 

Looking down from the third floor of Bart's hospital. Prepared to fall. And John, who looks up at him from the pavement, desperately begs for him to come down. But he can't. John does not, cannot understand that Sherlock is doing it for him. 

"Goodbye, John," he says, and he drops his mobile phone to the ground.

***

“You’re very calm for a man who is about to die."

These are the last words Moriarty will ever say to him. 

"I've had practice." Sherlock is unable to resist impertinence, even in the eyes of death. He's referring, obviously, to the fact that he's been pretend-dead for two years—but he tries to shake off the strange vision of himself on the rooftop at Bart's. 

That vision seems to have played itself out, but as he faces his own mortality, his brain becomes filled with flights of fancy. 

He closes his eyes, warmed by the sunlight on his skin, relishing the cool morning breeze on his cheek. He imagines the sun's rays are John's fingers, trickling over his arms as they lie beneath crisp white sheets, and John tells him that he loves him for the first time. The breeze is John's soft lips on his eyelids, his nose, and his forehead—as they picnic against a willow tree in the park. They are at a lake together in Greece, swimming and dining on fresh figs, and in a small, dark flat in Central London, where they raise their daughter. They're growing old in Sussex, John looking on lovingly from the garden as Sherlock tends to his beehives. A wedding on a white, sandy beach in Bali; another in the sprawling Swiss Alps; and yet another in the Sahara. 

It isn't only his life flashing before his eyes, but many lives—and in every one, he and John are together, and they are happy. As he thinks of what he is about to do, it offers him comfort. 

He looks downwards, where the building lights flicker like fireflies in a city that is just at the tips of his toes, yet thousands of feet away. 

The sun is up from the clouds now. He closes his eyes and inhales. He is at peace. It is time.

***

"Sherlock."

Strong arms are around his waist, dragging him back from the edge. His eyes fly open.

_John._

John pulls Sherlock in and twirls his body towards him in a protective, eager embrace, and Sherlock collapses into him with a stifled sob. 

"Bit too close there, love," John whispers. And his lips are on Sherlock's neck, his cheek, his jaw, his temple; they are kissing him everywhere they can possibly reach. 

Sherlock holds him, basking in the sensation of his cheek pressed into his neck, and he forces himself to ignore his aching heart for a few moments longer. 

"John. You came."

John presses his lips to his. "Did you doubt that I would?"

Sherlock coughs out a dry laugh. "I only hoped."

John lifts a hand, pushing back a wisp of hair from Sherlock's forehead. "Then you're an idiot," he says fondly. 

A surge of panic stabs Sherlock in the chest as he recalls Moriarty behind him—he hasn't made a peep since John arrived. Sherlock begins to turn, but John firmly clasps the side of his cheek, pulling him back to face him. 

"Keep your eyes on me, love," he says. 

"John, Moriarty is—"

"Shhhh. It's alright. Moriarty can't hurt us now." 

Sherlock exhales, relaxing into John's touch. "Is he watching?"

John smiles. "Yes. He's watching." 

Sherlock leans in and presses their foreheads together. "John," he says softly. "There's something I've got to do." 

“No. Sherlock, listen to me.” John grazes Sherlock's cheekbones with his fingers. “This isn’t how it ends.”

"This is how it _must_ end." Sherlock's voice trembles with desperation. "I will jump, and it will be over. You will be safe. And Molly will be safe, and Irene, and Lestrade, and Mycroft." 

John hushes him again. "I know," he whispers. "But you've got to trust me. Don't be afraid. I love you, and you need to know that. You need to know that I will love you for as long as the universe allows, and I will not let you take the fall alone." 

Fear and dread rise from Sherlock’s stomach to his throat as he starts to realise what John is saying.

"No. John, no." 

John tucks his hand beneath Sherlock's chin and tilts it towards him, looking him directly in the eye. "We don't have much time. You must listen very carefully and do exactly as I say." He kisses him once more, and Sherlock can't fight—he knows that he will do whatever John asks of him. 

"Hold on to me very tightly," John instructs. "I need you to promise me. Hold as tightly as you can, and do not let go for any reason. Do you promise?"

Sherlock buries his head into his neck, exhaling hot breaths and leaving small drops of wetness on his skin. “I promise.”

John pulls Sherlock’s body upwards, wrapping his arms and legs around his hips and torso. He squeezes Sherlock against him so tightly that Sherlock can barely breathe, but breathing is the last thing on his mind. Sherlock bites his lip to stifle a sob, clinging to him with everything he has.

"Alright, sweetheart," John says. "On the count of three."

_One..._

Sherlock closes his eyes, finding all of his strength in knowing that whatever happens, they will be together. 

_Two..._

John kisses the pulse point at Sherlock's neck as their hearts beat wildly.

_Three._

And they take the dive. 

***

Together, they fall to earth. 

They tear through the sky, welcomed by pink and white cotton candy clouds. Wrapped up in each other, their hearts in their throats, they feel the purest joy. It swells in their chest, threatening to burst open like a monsoon rain. The building above them grows smaller, and they leave one life behind, rising from the ashes to begin their lives together anew.

They're not falling; they're flying.

Neither of them could ever imagine what it would be like to fall or fly without the other. And now they will never need to—not in this life. 

They have never been more happy. 

The world below them approaches, and the end of the fall begins. Sherlock whispers in John's ear that he loves him. And even through the deafening sound of the wind, he hears John say it back. 

***

_It’s not the fall that kills you. It’s never the fall—it’s the landing._

The words suddenly cross Sherlock’s mind, seemingly from nowhere, and he wonders where he’s heard them before. Perhaps they came from a book of fairytales.

And though Sherlock never believed in fairytales, he and John get their happy ending—at the end of their fall, the landing is what saves them.

The landing, and Molly Hooper. And Molly’s bungee cord, and Molly’s net, and the harness that Molly engineered. A harness that’s small enough to be hidden beneath one layer of clothing, yet strong enough to hold two men dropping from the second highest building in the Western Hemisphere.

(It’s Molly Hooper that saves them.)

“You must move quickly,” she says as she pulls both of them from the net. 

The two men hold on to each other as they stand, their hearts pounding like two timpani. Sherlock tries to balance himself, but it proves premature—the world is dizzying, and the ground wobbles, and the blood screams in his ears.

John reacts quickly, catching his waist to steady him. He smiles at Sherlock, his hair perfectly windblown and matted to his face—and he’s so achingly beautiful that Sherlock can hardly believe he’s real.

“You good?” he asks.

“Never better,” Sherlock replies. 

Molly proceeds hastily, removing John’s coat and unfastening the bungee cord from the harness he’s wearing beneath it. 

“Molly.” Sherlock gestures towards the harness. “Is this yours?”

“You can thank me later.” Molly winks at him as she slides John’s jacket back over his arms. “Go. Gabriela is waiting for you.”

Sherlock blinks a few times, silently stunned. He looks at Molly in awe, then to John, then back to Molly, and finally, he takes her by the shoulders. 

“Thank you, Molly Hooper,” he says with sincere gratitude, pulling her up and kissing her on the cheek.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Molly huffs with impatience, sets the palms of her hands on his chest, and pushes—hard—sending him flying backwards. _"Go,”_ she repeats insistently, but she bites her bottom lip to hide a grin, and Sherlock knows she’s not as angry as she’s pretending to be. "If he sees you two, this will have been for nothing."

“Sherlock.” John tugs at his sleeve—a simple action, but it’s both delicate and commanding; so intimate that it sends sparks flying through him. 

God, how lovely he is. And how desperately Sherlock wants to kiss him, to hold him, to marvel over what they have just done. But he can wait. 

“Follow me,” John says.

Sherlock takes his hand. He doesn’t ask where they’re going. It doesn’t matter, as long as it’s with him.

The sun is high, now, and the air is warm, and the ground is firm beneath their feet. Side-by-side, they run as fast as their legs will take them.


	15. Love on All Sides

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m here,” he shushes him gently. “I’m here, sweetheart. And you’re here, and we’re both safe. Please don’t cry.”
> 
> Sherlock presses his mouth to his, slowly and sweetly. “Ten minutes ago, I thought I would never kiss you again, and here you are. These are happy tears.”

One life, or the other? One life, or both?

When all is said and done, it won’t matter; half of a soul cannot survive alone. When one dies, the other eventually wilts. When one is set ablaze, the other quickly burns. This is how love operates.

Tears of joy sting the corners of Moriarty’s eyes. A smile tugs at his lips, uncontainable; a breath of laughter vibrates his ribcage. 

He watches as Sherlock Holmes and John Watson fall to their deaths, amidst stifled sobs and hushed words—still clinging tightly to one another.

The sun continues to rise.

The Woman covers his mouth with the palm of her hand, dragging her knife over his stomach to remind him that it’s there. It’s so sharp that he might pierce his own skin with a breath too deep.

“Call off your network.” She rattles him impatiently. “Or I will bury this blade into parts that will make you beg for the sweet release of death.”

Moriarty gestures to his coat pocket; she eases her grip, allowing him to retrieve his cell phone. As he types, she keeps her eyes close and her blade closer.

_The debt has been repaid. As of this moment, no loved one of Watson or Holmes shall be toyed with._

He hits send. 

“You’ve made a wise decision.” The Woman’s hand falls from his mouth; and like a gust of wind from a hurricane, she plunges her knife into his abdomen.

“Yes.” Despite the blade buried deep inside him, he laughs jubilantly. “So have you.”

*** 

Ten minutes ago, Sherlock was ready to die. 

He and John never speak of this again. They don’t need to; they’ve said goodbye far too much in this particular lifetime.

Right now is all that matters. Right now, they’re safe in the backseat of a borrowed limousine, and Sherlock is in John’s lap, clutching onto his shoulders and kissing him desperately. He licks into his mouth, bears down onto him, only coming up for ragged breaths and needy whimpers. 

They’re high on adrenaline and the hunger to seek comfort after all they’ve endured; the only thing on their minds is each other. 

They don’t listen as Gabriela informs them that they’re meeting the others at the airport and returning to Boston on Mycroft’s jet. They don’t wait for her to stop talking; they don’t wait for her to turn on the engine and drive away. They don’t wait for her to get the point and wish them a happy reunion, quickly drawing the curtain closed that separates her seat from theirs.

“Need you, John.” Sherlock grinds his hips into John’s, trembling with desire. He’s half-starved, his voice raw with emotion. “Can’t stop kissing you. _John.”_

“Don’t want you to,” John breathes. He sucks on his plush bottom lip, skimming his fingers up his spine, his neck, through his hair, tangling his fingers into his thick curls as they worship one another’s mouths. 

Before long, the hardness between their legs is throbbing with the need to be released. Sherlock, ever observant, reaches down and unfastens John’s trousers first, and then his own. Their naked cocks pour out, dark and thick.

John tucks his hands beneath Sherlock’s buttocks and pulls him in, maneuvering him until he’s settled into the perfect position. Sherlock releases a rattling sigh as he begins to rock back and forth, rubbing the sensitive flesh of their cocks together.

“Mmhh. Ngghhhh, Christ.” John bites his bottom lip. He wants to say more, wants to tell Sherlock how he longs to wrap his fingers around his silky, magnificent cock. But he seems to have gone speechless, so he lets his actions speak for him—taking both of their lengths into his hand at once. 

He squeezes, pulls vigorously up and down, flicks his thumb over their moist slits. Sherlock tosses his head back and moans, exposing the milky-white skin of his neck as he sways with John’s strokes.

John leans into him, sets a kiss to his collarbone, to his Adam’s apple, to his jaw. Increases the speed of his hand as their cocks become nearly drenched in their own wetness. Loses himself in the sensation of their warm, velvety skin gliding together.

The pleasure is unreal. 

He falls silent, and Sherlock falls silent as well.

John eventually becomes conscious of Sherlock’s breathing patterns as they grow uneven, and he feels tiny drops of moisture as he glides his fingertips over his cheekbone.

“I’m here,” he shushes him gently. “I’m here, sweetheart. And you’re here, and we’re both safe. Please don’t cry.”

Sherlock presses his mouth to his, slowly and sweetly. “Ten minutes ago, I thought I would never kiss you again, and here you are. These are happy tears.”

He keeps kissing him and kissing him and kissing him, and John doesn’t stop kissing him back. Doesn’t stop allowing himself to be kissed, to be adored, to be his.

Soon, with his lips still on John, Sherlock releases a low, startled cry of pleasure.

“John, I’m—“ He leans away, his eyes wide. His hair is gorgeously mussed; his cheeks are flushed and damp.

“Yes.” John's tone is absolutely feral. “God, _yes_.”

Sherlock drops his head onto his shoulder as his cock throbs with its release, and John relishes in the hot desire pouring into his hand.

“More,” Sherlock rumbles softly against his neck, cock still twitching at John’s fingertips. “Want more of you, John.”

John releases a breath that’s somewhere between a laugh and a gasp. “What do you mean?”

But Sherlock is already sliding off of his lap and onto the floor, kicking his trousers over his ankles. John inhales sharply, clutching onto Sherlock’s shoulders as his lips slide effortlessly over his cock.

God, this is exquisite, John thinks as he gazes down at the man. _He_ is exquisite. 

Stifled moans become caught in his throat as Sherlock takes him deeper, swirling his tongue and bathing his cock in saliva. John begins to feel a familiar tightening in his abdomen, and he digs his fingernails lightly into Sherlock’s shoulders to give him the hint. 

Sherlock slides his wet lips from John with a smacking sound and instructs him to wait. Finding the space to rise, he turns his body away from John, reaching behind himself to align John’s cock with his opening; and he carefully sets himself back down, sinking into John’s lap. 

John breaches him with the tip of his cock. He utters more filthy words beneath his breath as he takes hold of Sherlock’s hips and guides him down, inch by tortuous inch.

Once he’s fully seated, Sherlock turns his head back, reclaiming John’s lips and continuing to kiss him passionately. His lower body moves in waves as he rides him, and John bucks up into him, slowly, slowly, slowly.

But John’s desire soon begins to overtake him; and he fucks him wildly, gripping onto his hips hard enough to bruise. Sherlock goes quiet again as his body yields to his thrusts; bouncing gracefully, his cock growing stiff against his own abdomen. 

When John finally slows to a sputter and comes, he whispers Sherlock’s name hoarsely into the cool, damp skin of his neck.

Sated by their release, they collapse into their carseats. They elect to put on their clothes, and Sherlock rests his head in John’s lap; John kisses his temple and whispers sweet words of affection. They weave their fingers together, their eyelids growing heavy, and they sleep for the remainder of the drive.

***

John’s not sure where he is—or how much time has passed—when the sound of Gabriela tapping at the window awakens them. 

In his sleepy haze and such unfamiliar surroundings, he’s briefly unsettled—but as soon as he sees Sherlock’s head in his lap, he remembers he’s exactly where he’s supposed to be.

They step out of the car and onto the tarmac. Gabriela welcomes them with a hug, followed by some egregious winking and congratulations for what sounded like a very pleasant car ride. 

The two men board Mycroft’s jet to prepare for their departure. As they visit the loo to rinse off and change clothing, John excitedly tells Sherlock of the master scheme that led them all here. How he woke up to an empty bed after Moriarty kidnapped Sherlock in the middle of the night. How he reached out to Molly for help, and how Irene used her powers of influence to contact Moriarty immediately. How they agreed to deliver John to the Stratosphere in exchange for the safety of their loved ones. He and Sherlock would jump right before Moriarty’s eyes, Moriarty not knowing Molly’s device would save them; meanwhile, Irene would stay back to ensure he kept his word.

Sherlock patiently listens to him rattle off every detail. Once he’s finished, he kisses him on the lips and casually informs him that he already figured it out—but wanted to hear it from him, because he finds his valor to be very, very sexy.

Molly and Irene both arrive within the hour, and are met with grateful, eager embraces. Sherlock thanks Irene first—wrapping his arms around her, kissing the top of her head and not letting go for a long time.

John detects a hint of moisture in her eyes when she says “you’re welcome.”

“What of Moriarty?” Sherlock asks. 

“He’s been taken care of,” she responds. “You and John are safe.”

Sherlock exhales a heavy breath of relief, but his expression is somewhat mournful. 

Irene places a hand on his cheek. “It wasn’t him, love. You must remember that.”

He nods. “I know.”

John tries to imagine what it must be like to watch someone you care for descend into madness, and to lose them again once they’ve become a monster. But Sherlock turns and smiles at him with a love brighter than the sunrise, and he’s reminded that they both have everything they need.

Sherlock then makes his way over to speak with Molly, who latches onto him, buzzing about how ecstatic she is that their plan worked. He wraps his arms around her shoulders and thanks her, and she buries her face into his chest, tearful and squealing happily.

John hopes she’ll keep Sherlock distracted for a moment—because it’s imperative that he doesn’t hear what John is about to say.

“Irene.” He clears his throat. 

She turns to him, her dark lashes as dark as ever, her scarlet lips just as scarlet. “Yes, darling.“

“I wanted to thank you for helping save Sherlock’s life.”

She smiles warmly at him. “Come here, you,” she says, holding her arms out for an embrace.

He folds his arms around her and pulls her in, hugging her gratefully. “There’s just one more thing,” he adds.

“Yes?”

He carefully leans in until his lips are directly over her ear, dropping his voice low. “Is he dead, Irene?”

If she’s surprised or caught off guard by his question, she doesn’t show it. No hitching of her breath or quickening of her pulse; no movement, yet no signs of hesitation.

But when he involuntary shifts his hand on her back a miniscule amount, she wraps her fingers tightly around his upper arm. It happens so quickly that he doesn’t notice she’s even moved until he feels the searing pain of her nails digging into his skin. 

“Irene.” His words are as steady as her grip. “I’m going to ask one more time: is Moriarty dead?”

She loosens her grasp substantially before responding. “It’s like I said. Both of you are safe.”

“Right,” he says stiffly. “You’re avoiding the question, then.” He clears his throat before continuing. “Look, I don’t need to know the answer. I don’t need to know your plan, nor do I want to. But whatever it is, you will keep Sherlock out of it. If you put him in danger, he will walk away from you, and I will walk with him. Do you understand?”

She chuckles softly, pulls away from him, and peers into his eyes, unblinking. “You’re very quick to speak for him, love. But I’ve known him far longer than you have.”

The corner of his mouth turns up. “No you haven’t.”

She regards him for a moment, her stern features beginning to soften, and she sets her hand atop his shoulder reassuringly. “His safety is a priority to all of us. As is yours, John. I give you my word.”

John believes her, and he believes he’s made his own point quite clear. So he leans in to kiss the top of her head, much like Sherlock had done before. “Thank you.”

“It’s easy to see how much you love him,” she remarks. 

He shifts his gaze back to Sherlock, who he finds gazing back. Across the rows of seats, they grin fondly at one another. “Yeah. I love him more than anything.”

***

Their plane arrives in Boston late that afternoon. Mycroft and Lestrade await them. The moment Sherlock sees his elder brother, he throws his arms around him, which elicits an expression of bewilderment at first—but he soon returns the embrace with a genuineness that surprises them both.

John and Sherlock return to the Strand that night. When they enter, John finds that the dark building is now candescent with happy memories. The bar itself, of course—where he laid eyes on Sherlock for the first time. The many walls and surfaces they’ve kissed on and beneath and under. The television, the table linens, the piano. Even the bathroom, where they first gave in to their mad desire for one another.

Sherlock takes him by the hand to lead him upstairs to his tiny quarters. Sleepy and satisfied, they curl up together, and they fall into a deep slumber that seems to last a lifetime. 

***

John’s eyes flutter open, and the first thing he sees is Sherlock next to him. He’s already awake, smiling at him like a man in love. 

“Morning.” John’s heart is warm, his voice rough from sleep. “You look radiant.”

Sherlock rests his head on the pillow. “Perhaps it’s because I’m looking at you.”

John laughs, reaching over to push a lock of hair behind his ear. “This is our first time waking up together in one of our actual beds. Perhaps we should make it a habit.”

“I would like that very much. Though perhaps not always in a tiny loft above a bar.”

“I like this place.” John looks over at the enormous bookshelf on the wall. “I fell in love with it the first time I saw it. It captures your essence. And I—wait. Is that a human skull on the bookshelf?”

Sherlock grins impishly. “Does that worry you?”

“No.” John shifts his body closer to him, setting a hand on his hip. “It intrigues me, actually.”

Sherlock blinks. “You find my possessions...intriguing?”

“And beautiful, and mysterious, and captivating. As I said...it captures your essence. Though I’m still slightly confused about what it is you actually do.” He gestures towards the scientific equipment. “I’m assuming you don’t use this stuff to brew beer.”

Sherlock laughs. “I do enjoy bartending. But I suppose my passion is helping people. We’re alike in that regard. Whereas you heal their bodies, I heal their hearts.”

“And how exactly do you do that?” 

“When a person dies, I help bring peace to their loved ones.”

John’s eyes go wide. “Wait.” He looks back over at the skull. “Do you...communicate with the dead?”

Sherlock’s eyebrows come together with distaste, forming the wrinkle on his forehead John adores. “Don’t be ridiculous, John. I solve murders, usually by consulting with the police, pro bono. Well, I used to, until I learned that my partner was a murderer, and then I had to die myself, so...” he trails off.

“Right,” John acknowledges. “I sort of assumed that was the case, given your publications and studies—and your alarmingly precise observation skills.”

Sherlock lifts an eyebrow. “You already knew? And you‘re alright with it?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“It’s a bit unconventional. Slightly morbid. Definitely dangerous.”

John lifts his hand to smooth away another curl that falls over Sherlock’s forehead. “I think it’s amazing. You’re a brilliant man, Sherlock. Whatever you choose to do, you will do with equal brilliance. I don’t care if you choose to solve murders, or make cocktails until we’re in our seventies. All that matters to me is that you’re happy.”

Sherlock smiles brightly at him, leaning into his touch and placing soft kisses on his inner wrist. “I am happy. Very happy.” 

John shivers at the sensation of Sherlock’s gentle lips tickling his skin. “You know...should you decide to go back to solving murders, I could be your partner. With my medical knowledge and your powers of deduction, we’d make a great team.” 

Sherlock pauses, appearing stunned. “Really? I would love that.”

“Then consider the offer on the table. Though at the moment, I’m content to simply be lying here with you.”

Sherlock leans forward to press their foreheads together. “Have I told you that I love you?” 

“You may have mentioned it once or twice. But I hope you never stop.”

Sherlock’s eyelids fall closed. He sighs blissfully as John cards his fingers through his hair, gliding them over his cheeks and tracing his jawbone, brushing his lips with his.

Their tongues slide sweetly together, skimming over the insides of one another’s mouths, lingering as their hearts and breaths become aligned. They cling to each other, their kisses slow and tender and delicate and unhurried. Tangled up beneath the blankets, they remove their clothing piece by piece. 

Their naked bodies soon grow hard and warm; their mouths grow greedy, and their whispers of longing become lustful moans. They don’t pull their mouths apart to come up for air—not even when John turns onto his back, pulling Sherlock up by his slim waist and spreading his legs over his thighs. Sherlock lays himself over John, aligning their slick, firm cocks and reclaiming his kiss-swollen lips. 

John tells him that he adores him, that he cherishes every moment of his skin pressed against his. And when he’s ready, Sherlock wraps John around him, and he opens him up. 

He holds his gaze as he makes love to him, his eyes wide and dark, and he tells him that his joy feels absolutely infinite. That there is no greater pleasure than being buried deep inside John’s body, that he loves him more than he ever thought himself capable.

John goes speechless and breathless and still, savoring every word and every inch of him. He lets his head fall back onto the pillow, basking in the scent of sweat and sex and Sherlock, surrounded by love on all sides. 

With a rattling sigh, Sherlock lays his sweat-drenched head on John’s chest, crying out earnestly with each thrust. 

“John,” he whimpers softly. “Oh, god. John. ”

John kisses his crown of curls and holds onto him tightly. “I’ve got you,” he says. “Let go. You’re safe, Sherlock. No more guilt or shame or fear of what may come.”

Sherlock gasps as his body goes stiff, tears stinging his eyes, and he pours his love out into John. John is so utterly awed and overwhelmed by his beauty that he can’t seem to catch his breath; without warning, his cock pulsates and he comes as well, untouched.

It’s the most incredible thing in the universe, this love they have. Perhaps the most incredible thing in any universe.

John turns to him. “Sherlock?”

“Yes, John?”

“Do you remember when you and I were in the field of dandelions, and you taught me about our other lives?”

Sherlock looks at him, befuddled. “Pardon?”

“Do you remember when we made love in our Victorian flat? Or on the sofa at Baker Street in Central London? Or inside the tiny cave in Ancient Greece?”

Sherlock’s mouth drops open as he searches for words, but nothing comes out.

Ah, so the Sherlock of this universe hasn’t yet been told.

John smiles at him. “Take my hand, darling,” he says softly. “There’s something I want to show you.”

***

They celebrate next Christmas at The Strand, surrounded by everyone they love. Mycroft and Lestrade are tipsy and holding hands beneath the corner table—though not as furtively as they seem to believe. Stamford and Elizabeth dance slowly to jazz music, their eyes sparkling as much as the ring he put on her finger the day before.

Sarah, Gabriela, Irene and Molly sit in a circle on the floor, hands joined, laughing and whispering conspiratorially. After Vegas, the four of them quickly became inseparable. The day they returned, Mycroft insisted Sherlock remain under protection, and Sherlock insisted on enlisting an attorney and a medic. He wouldn’t take no for an answer, and that’s how Gabriela and Sarah officially became part of their team. 

Even Harry and Clara are there. Once John finally worked up the courage to tell Harry how terrible Christmas had always been without her, she told him that she felt exactly the same; so she and her wife immediately booked a Holiday visit. The two women sit at the bar opposite him, swept up in each other as if they’ve forgotten they aren’t the only ones in the room.

And Sherlock—his Sherlock—stands behind the bar, looking down at his phone and glowing with excitement. “Beacon Hill. Potential murder. We’ll be back in an hour, tops.” He looks up, gently bites his bottom lip, and leans over the bar to whisper seductively in John’s ear. “You in?”

John downs the rest of his Old Fashioned, and they head out the door into the frosty mid-afternoon air. Hand-in-hand, they race down the snow-covered roads. 

They solve the murder in less than forty-five minutes, and on their way back, John takes Sherlock into an alleyway to kiss him until the stars come out. Days later, with the sound of fireworks and Auld Lang Syne fading into the background, he kisses Sherlock at midnight.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I began writing “Dive” in December of 2019—just six months ago—the world was different. “Sheltering in place” and “essential worker” and “Zoom sessions” were expressions that hadn’t yet made their way into the public consciousness. George Floyd and Breonna Taylor’s murders had not yet spurred a revolution.
> 
> ”Dive”, for me, served as a bridge between these two worlds. Writing it has been a great solace (and sometimes a great frustration) during the Quarantine Times, so publishing the final chapter was a pretty profound experience.
> 
> I’ve put so much of my soul into this story, and by reading this, you’re allowing me to share my soul with you as well. That’s not an easy thing to do, but it begins to sum up how meaningful it is that you’re here.
> 
> I can’t say enough about how important your comments are. I’m no good at responding, but I see each one, and they are what keep me writing. So if you enjoy this, please leave comments—short ones, long ones, simple ones, complex ones. Just one, or one per chapter chapter, or one every two chapters...there’s no such thing as too many.
> 
> Love you guys so much. Thank you for reading, and take care of yourselves 😘


End file.
